Straight On Til Morning
by Salmagundi
Summary: Bored of his life, Peter Kirkland accepts a stranger's offer to take him to a place where he can have everything he could ever imagine. However, he soon learns that "paradise" comes at a hefty cost, one that he might not be willing to pay.
1. Chapter 1

_**~Straight On 'Til Morning~**_

- 0 -

Author's Note: This is partially based on (and largely inspired by) one of my favourite books growing up - "The Thief of Always, by Clive Barker. It's very good, I highly recommend reading it. Plus there's a movie adaptation of it coming out soon.

- 0 -

_"All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end." _

- J. M. Barrie (Peter Pan)

- 0 -

I.

Peter dropped his knapsack beside the bed, a frustrated little huff in his throat as he flung himself down, burying his face against the pillows. He didn't even care that he was still wearing his shoes, though his father would have scolded him for doing so. It wasn't like he cared what his father thought. He froze midway through that thought as he heard a knock at the door.

"Peter? Are you in there?" Arthur's voice came through the wood, only slightly muffled. Peter felt the sudden childish urge to yell 'no!' even though it was stupid.

"What do you want?" He called back instead, half turning onto his side so he could glare at the door. If he stared hard enough, maybe it would go all the way through and Arthur would know just how not-happy he was right now.

No such luck. "Come on, Peter. Don't fool around - you're already late and we'll be going to dinner in just a moment! Get cleaned up and changed!"

"I don't want to!" Peter clenched his fists in the coverlet, his blue eyes darting toward the dresser where the picture of himself and his parents sat. "You can't make me go!"

"Oh for heaven's..." He could hear the growl in his father's voice. "Stop this foolishness. I'll have you know, we didn't have to rearrange this whole evening just so you could come along. You're lucky Mr. Jones was nice enough to invite you."

It sounded reasonable, but Peter didn't care. He didn't want to meet this man his father kept talking about so much. It was just like all of the others since Arthur had begun dating again. They didn't matter - none of them mattered. "I don't like him!"

"You haven't even met him!"

"I don't like him!" Peter insisted hotly, "You shouldn't go out with him!"

"I already told you that this is not a date..." Arthur's voice came back slow and cajoling, but faintly embarrassed too. They both knew it was a lie. "Come on, Peter... just give this a chance, that's all I'm asking..."

"No!" He sat up, fists clenched. "You're going to replace Mom! You don't even care about her anymore!" The boy felt a slight hitch in his throat. "Well, you can forget about her, but you can't make me! I'm not going! I don't want anyone else!"

"Damn it! Stubborn brat!" The rattle of the doorknob, and Peter was glad that he'd locked the door. The sound continued as Arthur tried to open the door, with no success. A moment later he heard the smack of flesh against wood - must've smacked the door with his hand... - then Arthur's voice again. "Fine then, Peter. But if you won't come and have dinner with us like a proper gentleman, then you can do without tonight!"

"...your cooking is terrible anyway..." Peter muttered to the door as he heard his father's footsteps receding down the hallway. He threw himself back on the bed, staring up at ceiling and biting his lip. "I hate you. I hate you!"

His gaze went to the picture on the dresser, at the smiling faces - Arthur looking so happy, the way he hadn't ever since that fateful day. He hadn't seen his father smile like that in longer than he cared to think about. Peter gave a low whine in his throat, snatching at one of his pillows and flinging it across the room. The picture tumbled to the floor with a crack, broken glass scattering across the carpet. "I hate it here..." He curled up on his side with a long sigh.

Then he recoiled as he realised there was someone just outside his window.

The figure on the other side of the glass grinned. It was a man - with strange pale hair and eyes that were a deep reddish colour. His smile was wide and oddly sharp somehow. The man rapped his knuckles against the window and mouthed a few words. Peter stared for a moment before he crept toward the edge of the bed and carefully slipped to his feet.

His fingers fumbled over the latch. As soon as it was undone, the window flew open with a clank and a gust of wind that smelled of dead leaves and damp soil. "Hey! Thanks. The awesome me was getting kind of bored out there!" The man slipped inside to stand right in front of Peter. He looked past the boy to the rest of the room before pushing past. "This is kind of a boring room, isn't it? So stuffy! Not what I expected at all! You are Peter Kirkland, aren't you?"

"Y-yeah. Uh..." Peter frowned, ready to say something when the blowing curtains distracted him. He moved to close the window and paused. He poked his head outside and looked down. Yeah... his room hadn't mysteriously moved to the ground floor while he wasn't looking. "How did you get up here?"

The white-haired man turned his head with a frown, "Come on, you can't ask the awesome me such silly questions. I got up here because I'm me!"

"But who are you?"

"Ah-" Red eyes narrowed into a sly look, "You haven't heard of the awesome Gilbert? No wonder you hate your boring life!" He leaned one shoulder against the wall, plucking up one of Peter's books and giving a slight curl of his lip. "History? What kind of kid wants to read that? I mean really! What you need is some proper excitement!" He snapped his fingers, straightening up and chucking the book to the floor. "I know!" An arm wrapped around Peter's shoulders and drew him close in a conspiritual huddle. "The great Gilbert likes you, Kid, so I'm going to make you an offer - not just for anyone mind you, just for the people that I think have the potential for awesome!"

"W-what?"

A lazy grin, like a cat but more toothy. "How would you like to go to a place where things are always fun and never boring? Everything you could want all the time - excitement, all that jazz! It's like Christmas every day!" A sharp spurt of laughter, though the humour made no sense to Peter. "This place - the Hetalia House, it's called. It's your wildest dreams come true, I mean it!"

"I-" It did sound good but, "What about school and stuff?"

Gilbert let out a sharp snort. "Are you serious? You're telling me that you would pick going to school over an awesome place like this? Maybe I was wrong about you, kid. You are a boring one."

"I'm not!" Peter huffed. "I want to go, I just..."

"Well, this is kind of a limited offer, you know. I mean, can't just leave the awesome me hanging! I've got a lot of other places I could be. So-" Gilbert smiled, a slow, curling smirk, "-what'll it be?"

Peter looked toward the closed door. Somewhere below his father was getting ready for his date... And what did Peter have to look forward to... homework... another trudging day after week after month of school and always with the same building sense of sludging through a mire of depression and boredom.

_/Life is too short, Peter.../_

"I-" He drew a slow breath. "I'll go with you."

A flash of something went through Gilbert's reddish eyes - like lightning, there and gone - and he held out his hand. Peter's smaller one slipped into it, the grip cold and strangely damp, and then Gilbert was on the windowsill with Peter behind him, and then the world flipped and they weren't falling, but settling to the ground with a jarring ease.

"Come on, kid, no use wasting time right? Right!"

Peter looked back over his shoulder as he was led on, stumbling for a moment on the curb. His father's car was still in the driveway as they reached the street corner, Peter's curtains still fluttering in the window above, visible until they turned a corner and passed out of sight.

II.

"Is it far?" Peter only asked after they'd been walking for a while. In hindsight, he should probably have asked earlier, but somehow he'd assumed that it was close - or that they'd be taking the bus or... well... he'd assumed something, that was certain. Now he was beginning to wonder.

"You are impatient!" Gilbert laughed, "I like you more and more! You're a lot like me, kid, and that's a good, good thing. Peas in a pod, that's us two!" He slung an arm around Peter's shoulders in a companionable fashion. "To answer your burning question - no, not far at all. In fact, we're here already!" He stopped walking so abruptly that Peter stumbled.

"Wha-" Peter blinked, only to find they'd stopped just short of actually running into a brick wall. He stumbled backward a step and looked up. And up. The wall was so tall that he couldn't see the top past the fog. "This? But this is a wall."

Gilbert scoffed. "A wall, he says! Where is that fine imagination I thought you had, my young friend? There's never just a wall, is there? I mean, what use is a wall?"

"It's to keep things...out." Peter trailed off, looking first to the right, then to the left. On both sides the wall stretched as far as the eye could see. The pieces came together. "So the place is on the other side of this? Where's the door?"

Another of those smirks. "You're looking at it."

Peter narrowed his eyes, brows crinkling. "But this is a wall! There's not a door here."

His companion gave a yawn at this, stretching slowly. "So? Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there. Just go on through, you'll see." There was something about his tone that made Peter bristle. The boy crept forward, reaching out a hand. His fingers touched solid brick. Blue eyes darted back to Gilbert who was looking at him with a bored expression. Peter bit his lip and pressed his hand against the wall, feeling stupid as he pushed at it. Pushed, and his hand didn't move, grimaced for a second and then pushed again for the hell of it.

And his hand sank into the wall - the solid wall. His heart stuttered in surprise as his entire arm vanished after it. As he stepped forward, it gave way around him until he was standing in a misty place with no evidence of anything and nothing he could see anywhere near by. A hand came down on his shoulder and he jumped.

"See, what'd I tell you? Now c'mon, this place is almost as boring as the one you left - and that was pretty bad!" Keeping his hand on Peter's shoulder, Gilbert ushered the youth forward, striding steadily through the mist until it began to clear around them. Peter hadn't noticed it at first until he could finally see colour again - hints of blue. His heart leapt and he surged forward into the world again, but a much brighter world than the one he'd stepped out of just a few seconds ago. It was like stepping into the warmth of mid-summer, despite the fact that it had been grey and the butt-end of winter back at his home. Peter shrugged out of his coat as the heat crept straight through to his bones, closing his eyes and just breathing in the scent and the warmth that had been so far away only minutes ago.

"Watch out!" Peter froze in place, eyes opening and head jerking around, just in time to see a fuzzy white and red blur dart between his feet. His gaze snapped up to see another form barreling down on him, full tilt. He was unable to do anything but gape as the other person plowed into him, sending both of them tumbling to the grass. Peter landed hard enough to be stunned for a second, only just beginning to catch his breath when a solid weight came down across his midsection and knocked all the air out of him.

He lay there for a moment, spots dancing in front of his eyes, then heard a voice - not Gilbert's - "Hey... uh... you okay?" Peter blinked several times, his vision clearing enough to give him the chance to look up into a pair of concerned blue eyes. Blonde hair fell down across the other boy's forehead, except for one mawkish strand that stuck up at an impossible angle. "Hey...?" The strange boy shook his head, the light of panic coming into his eyes. "Oh god... I killed you!"

Peter let out a croak, interrupting the other child's flailing. He coughed, still feeling sore and dizzy, but at least he could breathe again. "I'm not dead."

The boy stared at him for a moment, like he'd just seen a ghost, then he perked up. "You're alive! I saved your life! ...somehow." A cough, a cleared throat. "Well, I am the hero!" He flashed a bright smile, then pushed off to the side and held out a hand to help Peter sit up.

"Ugh..." Peter rubbed at the back of his head, looking at the strange kid who'd run him down. He might've said something cutting about this whole 'hero' nonsense - he'd inherited more than a little of his father's short temper - but it was hard to stay angry in the face of that sunny and painfully genuine expression of happiness. So instead he gave his head a shake, biting back the words. "Who are you then, Mr. Hero?"

A pause, the other boy looking at him with a blank expression before his eyes brightened. "I'm Al! But you can call me... uh... Ace or something. Yeah, that sounds cooler." He crossed his arms in front of his chest but his expression of blissful glee vanished as a furry blur careened off his shoulder and sent him tumbling face-first to the ground beside Peter.

Raucous laughter burst from behind both of the boys and Peter turned to see Gilbert standing there, grinning like a madman. "Some hero, losing to a puffball like that."

The small white feline sitting on top of Alfred's chest licked at one fluffy paw nonchalantly and gave its short tail a flick. It looked to Peter, who outstretched one hand with a certain caution. The cat stretched out its neck and gave a slight sniff - almost derisive.

"Kiku!" Both boys, the cat and even Gilbert, turned at the voice. A figure emerged from the house, moving toward them. At first Peter couldn't tell if it was a male or female or what age they were. It flickered almost, like one of those eye-puzzles, seeming like an old man for one moment, a young woman the next, and then the person was standing in front of them and it was a man, a handsome young man with long, jet black hair. The cat stood, finally regaling Peter with a good view of the single large red spot blazoned across its back, and leapt into the stranger's outstretched arms. "I'm sorry if he bothered you." The man assisted Peter to his feet, fingers cool and slightly dry.

"Oi, we're getting to the touchy-feely crap now, are we?" Gilbert took a step backward, letting out his breath in a sharp huff. "Well, that's it for me here then!"

"W-wait a second! You can't leave... we just got here!" Peter blurted, staring at Gilbert in disbelief.

"True, kiddo. But you know how it is when you're me - or I guess you don't, 'cuz you're not. There's places to go, people to do, awesome to be. It's a full time gig!" He clapped a friendly hand against Peter's shoulder, "You'll be fine kid, you've got moxie." Gilbert gave one hand a casual wave before moving toward the mist wall that still lingered at the edge of the grass. A bird flew down, a fat clumsy thing, and perched on his head as he vanished into the fog.

It wasn't until Peter was faced with the prospect of being left completely alone with these strangers that it really occurred to him: this was real. Quick on the heels of this thought came another, "What about my dad?" He blurted the words out without thinking, but Gilbert was already gone.

As the boy stood there gaping, he felt the gentle brush of a hand against his arm. He looked up into a pair of dark eyes and a warm, if slight, smile. "Don't trouble yourself too much, young one. It's Gilbert's way. You are Peter Kirkland I assume." There was a strange light to the man's eyes, "You have a lot of spirit. My name is Yao."

There was something about Yao that made Peter feel at ease and he smiled back despite his worries. "Good to meet you, Yao. I... I'm just worried, I guess. I didn't even tell my dad I was going..." He felt guilt settling in his belly at the memory of their last screaming match. Would his father be frightened to find him gone?

Off to the side, Alfred had finally managed to scramble to his feet. "What do you mean? Isn't it always our parents who send us here anyway? He probably knew you were coming already."

Peter's eyes narrowed, hope warring with disbelief. Could it be true? "But he never said anything."

Alfred shrugged. "Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise." When Peter's fretful look did not fade, Alfred gave his head a shake and took hold of Peter by the hand. "I bet it was. C'mon, you can even call him and see! Right, Yao?"

The casual use of the adult's given name jarred Peter more than he could say. His own father would not have allowed such disrespect. Yao just gave a slight dip of the head, though his odd smile did not change. Peter felt something as they passed him, a cool heaviness in the air - the scent of something faint and sweet, like pressed flowers. But they were inside then and the phone was there and Peter had other things to worry about as he dialed his home number with unsteady fingers.

"Hello?" Arthur's voice came over the line, the unease melting away at the sound of it. No more concerned than usual, he seemed. "Who is this?"

"It's me, Dad." Peter swallowed.

"Peter?" There was a note of relief to that word. "So you've arrived there alright?"

Just like that, the rest of his worries eased. A glance to the side showed him a grinning and satisfied Alfred - an 'I told you so' expression on his face. "So you knew I was coming here?"

A pause and Peter could imagine the serious look on his father's face. "I admit, I was skeptical of this whole business at first, but I was assured that this would be the ideal solution - a chance to relax, for the both of us. Have you settled in there? Do you want to come home?"

He had only to say the word and he knew his dad would make good on the promise of bringing him home. Peter swallowed and thought of home and the constant misery of it. His dad was right, they both needed a vacation. "I'm doing okay, Dad." His gaze went to the window and the summer brightness outside. "Really, I am."

There was another long pause on the other side of the line and he could see that expression in the back of his mind, the perennially worried look that Arthur had worn ever since his wife had died. "That's good, Peter." Something like relief came through his father's voice. "You have fun there..."

"I will, Dad!" Peter tried to let his smile show in his words. A sigh came through from the other side of the line and he could imagine that it was relief.

"I'll let you get to it then. You behave yourself! And don't forget to call!"

"I won't." He recognised his father's tendency to delay the inevitable coming into play and nipped it in the bud. "I'll call. But I'm sure you're busy so I'll let you go now. Bye, Dad!"

"But..."

"Bye!"

A disgruntled huff. "Bye..." Peter waited until he heard the phone click on the other end, then he hung up and turned toward Alfred.

The other boy was still grinning. "See! I told you! Now c'mon! Summer's almost over already!"

Peter couldn't quite process that nonsense. "Okay, Al."

"Call me Ace!"

Peter smirked, "Okay. _Ace_."

"Great! Now, I'm building a tree fort of solitude and I need plenty of help! Do you know how to use a hammer?" The two of them emerged out into the warmth once again and Peter saw Yao approaching them with a tray of snacks held in both hands. Al - Ace, that was - helped himself to a few and Peter followed his lead before the two of them made their way back around to the other side of the house.

As they approached the large tree, Peter could see the half-finished tree house overhead. Movement beneath caught his eye and he glanced over. A girl peered at him from beside the thick trunk, their eyes meeting briefly before she slipped away into the trees and out of view. "Who was that girl?"

"Huh?" Alfred frowned for a moment, brows furrowing. "Oh, you mean Eliza? She's strange! She's been here like... forever. She used to be really fun, but she's gotten weird lately. I'm sure you'll meet her tonight though, if she doesn't show up before then!" The other boy was already ascending the precarious looking rope ladder into the branches.

Peter glanced back to the spot where he'd caught a glimpse of the girl. "Eliza, huh?" He raised his head, to where Alfred had already reached the top, grinning in challenge as he grabbed hold of the rope and began to climb.

III.

Building a tree fort took longer than Peter expected - not that he'd ever done it before. The afternoon began to wane before long, the air cooling. It wasn't until the first leaf fluttered by his nose that he noticed the changes. It wasn't green, but a brilliant red, and as he caught hold of it in surprise, he saw what he'd missed before. All of the leaves around him were red, the brilliant hues of autumn stretching out as far as the eye could see. Peter scrambled to the edge of the platform and gaped a little. "Al - Ace! The trees!"

"Hm..." The other boy turned toward him, then swore softly as his lack of attention led to him mashing his finger with the hammer. "Ouch! Mff... What about the trees?" Alfred slipped his finger into his mouth, wincing.

"They've changed colour." Peter's voice came out soft and wondering. "They're beautiful..."

"Ah! That." Alfred crept up beside him to look over the edge too. "Yeah, I guess I got used to that. It happens every day at this time."

Peter shot him a surprised glance. "Every day?"

Alfred grinned in reply, rubbing his damp finger against the side of his jeans to dry it off. "Trust me on this! You ain't seen nothin' yet!" He perked before crawling back toward the ladder. "Oh, that means you don't know! Awesome!" Alfred looked over his shoulder. "C'mon, we've got to get back to the house and get ready!"

"For what?" Peter crept after him, grimacing. "What do we need to get ready for?"

"You'll see! It'll be fun! Trust me!" Alfred descended the ladder, blithe as ever, and Peter could do nothing but follow him down.

- 0 -

Yao was sitting at the table just inside the house as they entered, Kiku curled up on his lap beside another cat - white and brown. Both of them turned their heads to regard the entering children, purring lazily before ignoring them.

"You have two cats?" Peter couldn't fathom having one, his father had never allowed pets for whatever reason. Too destructive, too messy, too everything. Though there was nothing about Yao's pets that suggested any of those things.

The man gave him a quiet smile. "I have three. Kiku you know. And this sleepy one here is Heracles. If you see the other wandering about, that will be Gupta."

"You really like cats!" Peter blurted, flushing with embarrassment as the two felines looked at him again. "Not that there's anything wrong with that!" Both cats put their head back down.

There was something different to Yao's smile at that, a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "They're my joy. They, and the children." Yao lowered his head for a second, a slight twist to the corners of his lips. "But you didn't come here to listen to my ramblings. Off with you, before Alfred gets too impatient."

Despite Yao's dismissal, Peter had the urge to stay. But Alfred was at the door, looking at him with excitement in his eyes and the eager bounce of his step, and Peter swallowed his words and followed.

The house was larger on the inside than Peter would have expected; going up the stairs it felt like they were walking forever. Alfred led the way, almost vibrating as he went, casting glances back over his shoulder, always with that glitter of anticipation in his eyes. As they emerged into the hallway at the top, Alfred padded down past a couple of closed doors. Peter had to see everything, never mind that it was a barren wooden hall compared to the luxury of the rest of the house. The faint shape of a trap door on the ceiling caught his eye and he frowned, halting to squint up at it.

Alfred noticed his pause and came back. "That leads to the attic, I think. I've never been able to get it open. It's probably all just dust and boring mothballs anyway." It was the tone of someone who has tried very hard to convince himself of the fact. "Come on, we need to pick out our costumes before it gets totally dark!"

"Costumes?" It worked to distract him from his wondering, especially as Alfred threw open one of the doors and Peter caught his first glimpse of what lay beyond. "Oh!" The floor wasn't even visible beneath the mounds of clothing. Alfred was already wading out into it, reaching down into the vast sea of fabric and pulling out a intricately embroidered shirt. He held it up for Peter to see. "What do you think? Is it me?"

Peter's lips twisted and he was unable to bite back the sharp snort that escaped him. "You'd look stupid in that!"

Alfred grumbled and tossed it aside. A moment later his eyes lit up and he dived into the pile. Clothing flew left and right and Peter mostly managed to avoid it as he scanned the nearest stacks. His fingers brushed against smooth red fabric and he gave it a careful tug. It came away in his hands, silk and shimmer. He shook it slightly and the colours came through as the dust fell away. It was Asian, as far as he could tell... Peter shrugged out of his shirt and put it on, the fabric settling easily around him. He brushed his hands down the front, mesmerised by the shimmer, then jolted as Alfred popped up beside him.

A cowboy hat perched on the other boy's head, a blue bandanna tied about his neck. "Is that what you're wearing? Like a samurai or something? Awesome!" Alfred squirmed past him, fumbling in his over-sized boots. "Ready to go then?"

"Go where?" Peter still had no idea what all of this was about.

"Trick or treating, of course!" Alfred was heading down the stairs without delay and Peter was forced to follow. Outside the last of the daylight was fading and a cool breeze rustled at the dead leaves, making them rattle. The moon swung overhead, a thin crescent. Peter felt a shiver run through him, gasping as something fluttered by overhead. Bats? Something else? "Spooky, huh? Halloween. It's awesome! Now c'mon, I've got something else to show you!" He was off and running before Peter could tell him to slow down. All he could do was give chase through the brush, relying on sounds to guide him when the last of the dimming light faded away.

This tactic failed him when things went quiet. No more crunching of leaves underfoot, just the eerie rustling of the wind through the bare branches and the low hoot of an owl. Peter strained to make out anything beyond the darkness, shadows forming shapes in the corners of his eyes. He was not a boy to be afraid of the dark, but he couldn't still the pounding of his heart as he ventured cautiously forward, cringing as he stepped on a twig - the sharp crack shooting right through him.

"Ace!" He swallowed, head darting back and forth as he tried to catch some glimpse of his missing companion. "Are you out there? This isn't funny!" He took a couple of stumbling steps forward before catching a glimpse of a darker form beside a nearby trunk. It was human shaped, he could tell as he squinted, and he could even make out the ridiculous hat perched upon Alfred's head. Peter went silent, shifting his weight so he could approach as quietly as possible. So Alfred wanted to scare him? Well two could play at that game!

In the back of his mind something was prickling at him, a danger sense, but he wasn't sure what it was until he was closer. Alfred's shadowy form disappeared behind the tree and Peter closed the distance, speeding up his steps as he rounded the trunk. "Aha!"

There was no one. Peter stared, sputtering a bit, his lips pulling into a grimace. Damn that Ace! He turned to go back the way he'd come - the house couldn't be that far - and yelped as something came crashing down from the branches above. In what little moonlight there was, he could see the rope around the figure's neck, the cowboy hat sitting askew atop its head. He reached out to shove it - Alfred? Could it be Alfred? Oh god... - away and caught a glimpse of the face beneath the hat, gaping dark mouth and something wet and sticky against his palms. Then the rope gave way and a heavy weight landed atop him, pinning him in place.

Peter screamed.

He flailed, trying to get out from beneath the body, panicked wheezes rising in his throat. Then he heard it, a bark of laughter from overhead. The branches rustled and there was the thunk of someone jumping down. "Oh god, that was awesome... your face..." Alfred could barely get the words out between the harsh gasps of laughter. "Oh-oh you really fell for that one!" The boy doubled over in a fit of giggles.

Peter turned red, sitting up and shoving the... body... off. Now that he was seeing it close up, his mistake was clear. It looked nothing like Alfred except for the hat. It was a crudely stuffed scarecrow - the head made from a pumpkin with a jaggedly carved mouth. The wet sliminess of it was simple pumpkin innards. "You ass!" Peter swore, forgetting himself and all the polite manners his father had tried to instill in him. "You lousy bastard! You scared the shit out of me!"

None of his yelling did anything to faze the boy who was still rolling about on the ground laughing like a loon. Peter swatted at him and only succeeded at making Alfred laugh hard enough that he almost choked. Peter's baleful glare didn't shift as the giggles finally died down.

"C'mon," Alfred gasped between breaths as he tried to replenish his oxygen, "that was funny!" Peter pushed to his feet and began to stalk away. A loud rustling followed as the other boy scampered after him. "Aww... don't be mad!"

"I"m not!" Peter emerged from the trees and paused, blinking as he felt something brush his cheek. His eyes widened and he let out a breath, seeing it fog in the light from the porch. "Whoa..." Anger forgotten, just like that. A white flake drifted past his ear and he reached out a hand to catch it, felt it melt in the warmth of his palm. A form came up beside him and he turned to look. Alfred was still flushed from the exertion but grinning widely at the sight of the slowly drifting flakes.

The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder watching the snow come down until Alfred shivered. "Okay, I'm going in. Brr... You coming?"

"In a moment..." Peter never looked away, mesmerised. Snowflakes settled into his hair. HE heard the door open and shut, then silence. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky, feeling the cold on his cheeks and smiling. The door opened again and he didn't turn. "I thought you were cold, Ace."

"I'm not Ace."

Peter let out his breath in a sharp burst, eyes opening to look into another pair of green ones, only a short distance away. The girl smiled, holding out a steaming mug with one hand. Peter took it numbly, still gaping at her. "I saw you earlier - by the tree!"

She laughed, not loud but with a clear enthusiasm. "Sorry I didn't say 'hi' then, but you looked busy. I'm Elizaveta."

"Peter." He mumbled, taking a sip from the mug to cover up his awkwardness. It was hot cocoa, the liquid scalding at his tongue so he couldn't taste the sweetness.

Elizaveta's eyes lit up. "Peter Kirkland, right?" Then, at his look of surprise. "Yao told me who you were."

None of it explained how Yao knew, but he didn't want to ask. "That's me."

She beamed and Peter smiled back. "Since you're new, you probably don't know how things work around here." It wasn't a question but Peter nodded anyway. Elizaveta's warm hand brushed against his own and he took it, on instinct. "Come inside. The best parts haven't even happened yet."

He smiled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, watching her expression light up as she led the way up the porch steps and into the warmth.

IV.

There was a Christmas tree in the den - yet another place in the house he hadn't even known was there. The vaulted ceilings stretched up into forever and the tree was no piddling thing but a massive pine with a trunk so wide around that Peter could not have wrapped his arms around its girth. The spreading branches were festooned with ribbons and sparkling glass ornaments.

Alfred was already there when they entered, sitting beside the fireplace. He waved at them as they drew near. "Hey, I was wondering when you'd show up! Cookie?" He held out the plate and Peter took one, careful to settle a bit further away from the hearth.

"Aren't these supposed to be for Santa?" he joked, taking a nibble. He could taste cinnamon and he wondered if Yao had made them.

"Santa is on a diet." Eliza covered her mouth with one hand to hide the smile. Peter furrowed his brows, mouth opening but no words came out as there were a series of thumps somewhere overhead. A minute later, something skidded down the inside of the chimney to land in an unceremonious heap at the bottom. The fire was mostly quelled as the odd figured squeaked and fumbled forward, dusted with soot. It didn't stop Peter from skidding back in a graceless tangle of limbs, putting distance between himself and this odd apparition.

"Buon Natale!" The figure greeted, spreading both arms wide. Beneath the streaked grey soot on his cheeks, he sported a merry grin, though unlike the normal image of Saint Nick, this man was skinny and clean cut, though dressed in the classic red suit. There was a pause as the strange 'Santa' looked to each of them, then let out a gasp. "Are those cookies, ve~? They look like cookies. I'd like some cookies. Can I have some cookies, ve?"

Another thump and a spreading cloud of soot came from the chimney as the cheerful (and very cookie-loving) Santa reached out for the plate. Another figure stumbled forth, very much like the first in appearance, except for the forbidding scowl he was sporting. "Don't eat that, you dummy!" He swatted it from the other man's hand. "We're here to give out gifts!"

"Aaah! Gifts! I like gifts! Do you like gifts?" Peter wasn't sure if he was the one being asked, but he nodded anyway. "Good! Because I have gifts!" The man retrieved a huge bag from behind his back, a move that impressed Peter since it obviously hadn't been there before. He dug around inside the bag before pulling out a large box, brightly wrapped in white paper. Little black dolphins decorated the sides, with a red bow holding it all securely. "For you!"

Peter took it, a bit gingerly. He gave it a gentle shake and heard something rattling inside. With a slight frown, he sank to the floor, sitting cross legged with the gift braced across his knees. He ran his finger along the ribbon, dimly aware of the other two kids accepting presents as well. Peter tugged on the end of the bow and it slipped free with ease. Sliding a finger beneath the edge of one flap, he nudged the tape free, taking his time as he undid the paper. IT fell away to reveal a blank box beneath.

He wasn't sure what he expected when he opened the lid. Not this though. Never this. It was hard to swallow past the lump in his chest. "It can't be..." Both hands reached inside, fingers brushing against polished wood, drawing it out as the pad of his thumb grazed the familiar curve of the prow. Peter knew the shape of it by heart, tracing the name painted on the side without even having to look. His parents had given him a toy boat for his fifth birthday, after he'd spent several months obsessing over books about sailing and pirates. Once they'd realised it was more than a phase, they'd done their best to indulge him.

Arthur had never said as much, though in hindsight it was obvious, but the toy boat had been carved by hand. Maybe not as elegant as the toys that Peter had admired in the store windows, but more meaningful. His mother had painted it and each of the wooden sailors. It would have taken weeks of work, perhaps months, but Peter hadn't known. He'd loved it for being a toy and a ship and carried it everywhere with him for the better part of four years.

"What'd you get?" Alfred peered over and Peter wrapped his arms around the wooden ship protectively. "Hey, that's pretty neat! I got a plane!" Alfred pulled a pair of goggles over his eyes as he held the WWII era model plane out and made it 'fly'.

Elizaveta sank down to site beside him, smiling. "What is it? Something special?"

Peter raised his eyes, biting at his lip a little. "Yeah. My mom and dad made this for me." He stroked his fingers over the hull. "But I lost it a long time ago!" He held it up in front of him. "How can it be here?"

The girl looked at him, a strange light coming into her eyes. "What happened to it?"

He bit his lip and slid the toy boat back into the box, folding the flaps over it. "It's a good gift. I'm happy." Pushing to his feet and past her, he approached the 'Santas'. "Thank you for the present."

"Ve? So you like it? I'm glad you like it!" The cheerful one chirped. "I told you, Lovino! I said he would like it"

"Feli... you didn't even know what was in it, idiot!"

"But... he liked it and that's good, ve?"

"So what? Don't go hogging all the credit when it's Gaius who gives the gifts!"

"Hey, hey!" Peter piped up, seeing the downcast look on that puppy-like face. "Don't argue. I liked it! That's the important part, right?" Both of them turned to look at him and he blanched a little. Well... at least they weren't arguing anymore. "Um... umm..." - quick, change the subject! - "A-and who is Gaius?"

Everyone went quiet for a second, then he heard the sharp crack of something hitting the floor. Yao was standing in the doorway, looking helplessly at the spreading mess on the smooth wood where he'd dropped the tray of mugs he'd been carrying. The cats came up around his feet, lapping at the spilled drinks - the first time Peter had gotten a glimpse of his mysterious third feline.

"Grandpa Gaius runs this whole place!" Feli piped in, his tone bright. "He made everything! He made the yard and the trees and the snow and he made-" His voice cut out in a squawk as Lovino yanked at his hair.

"That's it for us, right Feli?" He dragged the other man back toward the chimney, Feli whimpering and protesting the entire way. As they reached it, the soot spiraled and retracted, leaving the room as pristine as it had been before.

Peter ignored this new weirdness, moving to kneel beside Yao and help gather the broken ceramic pieces. "Are you okay?" He glanced over his shoulder to see the other two children. Alfred was idly fussing with his toy plane, Elizaveta was curled in one of the large chairs, looking at the swirling white outside the window. Neither of them moved to lend a hand.

"I'm fine." Yao's dark eyes were unfathomable. "You should go and enjoy yourself, young one."

"I can do that after." Peter insisted.

A hand ruffled at his hair. "Don't worry yourself over such things, Peter. Life is too short to waste... you should enjoy it while you can." When Peter looked to argue again, Yao's expression firmed. "Go."

And Peter went.

As he curled up in his bed later - sheets turned down, fluffy comforter exactly as he liked it - he ran his hands over the boat again before settling it carefully on the bedside table and turning out the light

- 0 -


	2. Chapter 2

V.

Morning brought an end to the snow. Peter woke to sunlight filtering into the window, falling in a narrow band across his face. He flinched from it, drawing his pillow across his face. The sound of chirping startled him from his renewed doze and he sat up, the pillows tumbling everywhere. His eyes refused to focus for a second as he blinked in the brightness, vision clearing only slowly. Green. There was green outside. The rest registered in a heartbeat after this first realisation - that he wasn't at home. He was here, in this strange place. Summer and Christmas and Halloween, all in one go.

His gaze darted to the bedside table where his Christmas gift of the past night was still sitting. He crept back to it, took it in his hands. The disbelief was no less than it had been last night, though his shock had been tempered somewhat. He sat cross legged on the bed, the boat in his lap, passing each of the sailors from hand to hand. There were over a dozen of them, each just as he remembered. He turned the captain over in his palm, unable to help smiling. It had been painted to look like his father, with a stern scowl on its face. He set the pieces back inside before replacing the boat in its position on the table.

Peter padded to the kitchen, pausing just inside the door. Yao was already there, hair bound neatly behind his back, sleeves rolled up, an apron tied around his middle. Whatever he was working on, it wasn't visible with his back to where Peter was standing. A cat brushed past him, dusty gold, with dark rosettes scattered across its back and sides, but it paid him no mind, going instead to where Yao was cooking.

"Good morning." Yao called out to him without turning. "I hope you're in the habit of eating breakfast, aru!"

His father had tried to cook breakfasts after his mother had been gone a while. It was inevitable that it turned into an exercise in restraint - one that Peter had mastered admirably - in not blurting out to his father about how horrible the food was. Luckily for Peter's digestive system, Arthur had figured that out on his own, thus sparing both of them a great deal of pain. Peter hadn't been much for breakfasts after that, though the smell was already making his mouth water. He eased into a chair at the table and peered over, finally getting a good look at Yao's last pet. "So you really do have three cats."

Yao turned with plate in hand, setting it before Peter on the table. "This is Gupta. He's a bit shy until he gets to know you. Then he won't leave you alone."

"Hello, Gupta!" Peter leaned over in his chair and held out his hand to the cat. Yao made a small noise in his throat, then fell silent as Gupta idled over to sniff Peter's hand. A moment later, the cat hopped into Peter's lap and curled up.

Peter beamed, darting a glance at Yao. The expression on the man's face gave him pause for a moment, but Yao said nothing, just nudging the plate at him. He took it, looking down at the contents. He wasn't entirely sure what it was, some kind of fluffy, pastry-like thing, but it looked good and smelled better. After a cautious nibble, Peter dug in with relish.

He didn't notice Elizaveta's arrival until she sat down beside him. "Gupta likes you." He froze, mid-bite, caught; blue eyes wide as he met her gaze. She was smiling at him, elbows braced on the table and feet tucked beneath her chair. "You must be something special." He would have been beaming at that point, but the earnest brightness in her eyes made him duck his head with embarrassment instead. He was grateful when she didn't continue with her praise, distracted by the food.

Finishing quickly, Peter moved to flee and couldn't budge with the warm weight still perched on his lap. He glared down at the meddlesome feline who only flicked an ear, unperturbed. Nudging didn't do a damn thing to shift the cat and Peter slumped in his seat, sulking. Eliza finished before Gupta decided to move, laughing softly at the look on Peter's face before carefully scooping the cat into her arms.

"Thanks." He slid to his feet, catching hold of his plate and carrying it to the sink. As he turned back, Elizaveta was still there, Gupta cradled gently in her arms. Both of them were looking at him with similar expressions of vague curiousity.

"I know you probably like hanging out with Alfred," the girl murmured at last, "but if you'd like a tour of the place... I mean Alfred is fun, but-"

"An airhead?" Peter supplied, when the term seemed to escape her.

Eliza stifled a laugh. "He's... excitable. I'm sure he'll be gung-ho to show you everything, but he'll wind up getting distracted before long." He nodded in response to her words, having come to the same conclusion himself.

"Uh, sure..." He fidgeted, feeling his ears turning red. "...the showing me around thing... I'd like that." She smiled, shifting the cat to the crook of her arm with surprising ease and holding out a hand to him. He hesitated, then took it.

-0-

"Alfred - uh... Ace - says you've been here for a while." It was the first thing he could think of to say, though they'd been walking for a long time in relative silence. The house really was bigger inside than it seemed, with more rooms than Peter could count. Toys and games were all about, stacked neatly or scattered into random piles. They'd ambled through most of the rooms, Eliza pointing out small things with a twinkle in her eyes.

There was the barest hesitation at that, her fingers brushing along the wall, a shadow coming into her expression. "A while, yes..." It didn't seem she would say more, so Peter didn't press. Just when he thought she was going to remain silent, she spoke again, voice soft. "I didn't come here like you and Alfred." She released his hand to cradle Gupta against her chest. "My parents didn't send me. I got lost and Gilbert found me." Peter could sense more to this than what she was saying and wasn't sure what made him so certain of it. "Anyway, Gilbert brought me here, and this is where I've been since. It's not a bad place to be though, I suppose." She switched tracks mid-way. "Do you like puppies?"

"Huh?" Peter didn't have time to answer before Elizaveta came over and plopped Gupta into his arms. There was something in her eyes, something of mischief and she pushed open the nearby door. Gupta bristled as a pile of pups, all the breeds he could identify and more, came crowding round Peter's feet. "Whoa! Easy! Don't be scared." He wasn't sure if his worry was more for the cat or for himself getting clawed.

Stopping a discussion with puppies... that was pretty underhanded!

Rescue came from an unexpected source. "Hey Peter! Did you want to go- oh hey! Puppies!" Alfred went down to one knee and the entire pack rushed over to greet him, pinning him to the floor and licking his face. Howling laughter filled the air as the boy tried to squirm out from beneath the mob. "Whoa! Down! Sit! Hey guys, some help!"

Elizaveta threw Peter a grin before whistling. All of the dogs turned to her, ears perked, then immediately set to chase as she tossed something down the hall and called them to fetch. "You owe me one now, hero-boy." She teased as he made her way into the opposite direction of her toss. "Now hurry up you two, before they realise there's no ball." The three of them fled down the stairs.

"Whoa..." Alfred leaned against the wall, panting slightly, "And I thought I liked animals!" Pause. Blink. "Oh yeah, that reminds me why I was looking for you!"

Peter frowned, remembering Alfred's prank on him the previous day. He made a mental note of it - he'd have to get even later on... "Why's that?"

"I was going to see if you liked to ride - the stable has all kinds of horses!"

_Horses?_ Peter mouthed the word, not quite connecting it. Eliza was faster on the draw. "That'd be fun! Don't you think so, Peter?"

With two against one, there was little the boy could do but shrug and follow after them. Though he regretted not trying a bit harder to get out of it once they were standing in the stables and he was looking across the fence at a very large seeming horse that was eying him with what Peter imagined was an expression of dislike. "Um... I don't know about this... I mean what kind of person needs to ride one of these nowadays anyway...?" He began, turning to look at the other two.

They were both already perched on horses, both apparently very at ease with being atop the big animals. Alfred was wearing that cowboy hat again, and an impish grin as he looked down at Peter. "Not afraid, are you?" Okay... Peter licked his lips and tried to persuade himself that if both of the others could do this, then he could too!

Ten minutes later, perched precariously in the saddle, Peter couldn't help but think he'd been suckered. "You both planned this, didn't you?" He clung to the reins so tightly that his fingers hurt.

"Of course not." Eliza guided her horse up beside his, smiling at him. "How could you even ask?"

"Call it a wild hunch..."

"Aw, don't be worried, Pete! Riding a horse is just like walking! Only higher. Yah!" Alfred gave his horse a kick and led the beast into a trot, leaving the other two behind. Eliza didn't follow, but chose to remain apace with Peter until the precarious experiment in horseback riding was finally over.

-0-

VI.

Eliza stayed beside him for most of that day, and the next couple of days, though more often than not, it was the three of them hanging out together. Toward the end of the first week though, Elizaveta didn't show up for breakfast.

"She does this sometimes," Alfred told him, when he decided to worry aloud about the matter. "She'll turn up again later tonight. She's always back for gifts." The boy tilted his head to regard Peter with a curious look. "Don't be down over it! C'mon, why don't you take that boat of yours and we'll go sail it."

"Huh?" Sail? Was there a creek nearby or something?

Alfred's grin did not bode well. "Just grab it and we'll go." But he wouldn't say more. Peter wondered what he was getting himself into now, but he didn't want to spend the day alone so he did just that.

-0-

There was not a creek, but a lake on the premises, apparently. "What is this place?" Peter ventured toward the dark water, pausing as his foot bushed at one of the large smooth stones ringing the edge. "it's kind of creepy..." The surface of the lake was smooth, a deep greenish blue. He almost reached out a hand to dip his fingers but hesitated just short of actually touching.

"Yeah, isn't it awesome?" Alfred enthused, grinning as he scampered right up to the edge, leaning so far out that it seemed he would tumble in at any moment. "There's fish too, but I've never caught any!"

Peter envisioned sitting at the lakeside with a fishing pole but couldn't bring himself to think of catching anything there. This was not a lake for fish, he thought, giving a slight shiver despite the summer warmth. "That's probably a good thing." He held his boat closer to his chest, no longer sure he wanted to risk it to the cold water. "Maybe we should go back? I don't know if this is a good idea..."

"What? Doesn't it float?" Alfred peered at the wooden boat, sidelong. "A boat should float unless it's made wrong." He reached for it and Peter took a step backward.

"There's nothing wrong with it!" Peter shot back, dodging as Alfred reached for it again. "Don't touch it! My dad made me this!"

Alfred blinked then withdrew, raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Fine. Geez, you could've just said so instead of being all angry about it." The other boy scuffed a foot against the ground. "So... you wanna go do something else instead?"

His eyes flicked toward the lake, brows furrowing slightly. "Not really... you should go on ahead..."

A soft sound from Alfred, disappointment or distress, but he could hear footsteps receding in the distance. Peter waited until the sounds were entirely out of range before stroking his hands lovingly over the wooden hull. A glance back toward the water, uncertainty glimmering in his eyes. So eager he'd been, the first time he'd had this gift. And now it felt in his hands just as it had in his memory, so real and yet...

Perfect. Imperfect. Peter dropped to one knee on the cold stones, fingertips grazing the surface of the water. The wooden sailors stood proudly on the deck as Peter released his hold. It floated. It did. Straight out of his memory and given form, the boat hung on the water's edge, serene and magnificent.

It was all he needed to see. Peter reached out again, further than before, it had drifted a bit - fingertips grazing the wood. His tongue flicked out over his lips in concentration, he strained a little further.

There was no warning, just the emergence of something black and sleek, huge dark eyes, a gaping mouth. Peter recoiled, staggered, his foot slipped on the perpetually damp stones of the rim. It was less a sensation of falling than of the water rising up to meet him. He flailed, felt the brief solidity pass through him and then he was on the other side, water rising greedily around him and pulling him in, pulling him down. He kicked, instinct grabbing hold of him, pushed for the surface then felt the air leave his body in a series of bubbles as he saw light glinting. For a moment he thought he'd gotten the direction wrong, that he was turned around, because the light was coming from below.

But no, there was still light above him and he prayed it was the right way to go as his lungs screamed with need. A flash of dark scales from the corner of his eye, when he was too desperate to be scared, and then he broke into the sunlight again, gasping, scrambling to pull himself ashore. As his breath same in shudders and coughs, he saw his boat from the corner of his eye, breaching onto her side, the sailors tipping toward the edge of the deck.

They hit the water and sank, sank where it seemed they should have floated. The boat followed behind as Peter watched - slowly engulfed by the dark and the wet.

Some part of him could appreciate the irony - the rest was more concerned with the chilly wetness of the clothes clinging to his body. Peter staggered to his feet, shivering as he made his way back through the trees.

-0-

Warmth and fresh cookies awaited him, and as he sat wrapped in a blanket and sipping the hot tea Yao had made for him, the memory of the panic and the darkness was already starting to fade. As Yao's cats curled up around him, a purring heap of small bodies, Peter could almost forget the whole incident at the lake.

Halloween and Christmas again - a stuffed bear he'd had when he was three: Paddington in raincoat and boots - and the lingering remnants of the lake seeped from his memories. But in his dreams he could remember, dark water and dark fish and the eyes on him with that blank hungry stare. He woke with inexplicable tears drying on his cheeks.

-0-

VII.

Days passed, idyllic warmth. Despite Peter's protests, Alfred seemed determined to teach him how to ride. The tree house neared completion, with a little help from Eliza. It was the longest continuous period of time he'd seen her, hair mussed and flecks of paint on her cheeks. She'd laughed and Peter couldn't help but laugh along.

Evenings went slower - Peter unable to resist the urge of trying to find some way to get Alfred back for that stupid trick with the scarecrow. For being a complete dumbass, Alfred was a hard guy to trick. He didn't seem to get scared by anything except ghosts and Peter had yet to master pulling off the perfect ghost. Peter scuffed a foot against the hardwood floor and glanced out the window. Alfred was out at the stables again and Elizaveta was nowhere to be found. Again.

He glanced up as Yao brought him something to nibble on. "Hey, thanks. This looks wonderful." Despite his frustration, he was more than willing to dig in, no matter what the concoction, Yao hadn't disappointed him yet. After a long silence, Peter pushed the plate away. It was good, but not satisfying.

"Is something troubling you, child?" Yao moved to sit beside him, lap immediately occupied by two cats. The third crawled into Peter's lap and began purring up a storm.

"I don't know... I really like it here but Eliza's been avoiding me and Ace just can't take anything seriously. And he's just...ugh!" Peter banged a palm against the table, making the tea tray jiggle. "Sorry. I just don't get it. Why aren't I happy, Yao? I've got everything I want!"

"Sometimes Peter, it's not about what you have or want as much as what you need." It was about as indecipherable as a fortune cookie and Peter snorted, pushing the plate aside.

"I guess s-" He cut off in surprise to see another person sitting at the table. It was one of the Santas - the cheerful one - and he was eying Peter's leftover plate with intense interest. "Um..."

"Hello, ve! Are those treats? Are you going to eat them?" He gave a slow, longing stare. Peter swallowed and gave his head a slight shake, watching the man's expression light up. "I would like those. May I have them?" The boy gave the plate an uncertain shove toward him. All those nights of gifts and he still had no idea what this guy's name actually was. "Grazie!" -came the high coo. "Lovino never lets me have snacks. You won't tell him, will you?"

"Uh... no." Peter's baffled gaze went from the brunette to Yao, who only averted his eyes a little, still petting his cats. "Why can't you have them?" It was asked more for the sake of having something to say than any real desire to know.

"I'm allergic, ve. He says they'll make me sick." On instinct, Peter reached out and dragged the plate back out of reach before anything could be snagged. A hurt look fixed on him. "Why did you do that? You said I could have one!"

"Not if it's gonna make you sick!" Peter pressed his lips together stubbornly, as his father had always done when giving him the same lecture. "You shouldn't do things that are bad for you!"

He felt a quiver run through him as the voice responding to his words was not the one he expected. "Wise words, Peter. But at what point does 'bad' become relative?" Yao caught the frown, the furrowed brows. "What I mean, Peter, is that there are points where what you get from doing something bad for you outweighs the risks of it. To know when this is, though, is a skill not commonly mastered. Are you done with your plate, aru?"

The normally smiling man sat there dejected. After a moment's hesitation, Peter touched his arm. "Don't be unhappy! I mean... it'd be sad if you got sick, wouldn't it?"

It was the first time he'd actually seen the guy's eyes. They were warm and golden when open, astonishment creeping across his cheerful face. "You would be sad?"

He could hardly say no to that look. "Y-yeah, I'd be sad." Peter reached out and patted him on one shoulder, hearing the hum coming from his throat. A brilliant smile was thrown in his direction.

"Then I guess that's okay, ve!" A pause, then, "Do you like to draw?"

"Huh?"

-0-

Art hadn't ever really been his forte, unlike the constantly cheerful Italian man - whose name he'd finally learned, was Feliciano or just Feli for short. Peter's attempt at a cat came out as a twisted gargoyle like thing with a face that looked like it had gone a few rounds with a blender. Even Heracles had turned his nose up at it, which was saying something. Feliciano only gave the softest of tsks and then carefully assisted him at adjusting one of the beast's hideously malformed paws. "I don't think I'll ever get this right," he mumbled, and Feliciano patted at his arm.

"It looks fine." Cheerful sing-song voice that Peter still couldn't figure out. If he was lying, it was hard to tell.

"It looks terrible!" A voice came from behind and Peter jumped, felt his heart doing erratic palpitations in his chest. "What is it?" Alfred stood behind him, holding an ice cream cone which he was lapping at in frantic bursts. It didn't help, the ice cream was running down his fingers in the lingering afternoon heat.

Anger welled the brush clenched in Peter's white knuckled fingers, then tossed aside. A soft 've' and a call of "Hey, what's the matter?" followed on his heels as he stormed off.

-0-

A knock at the door, just a soft one before it was pushed open a little, enough that he looked up to see Elizaveta entering the sitting room. She seemed as though she was going to say something, but whatever it was, it died at the expression on her face. "You look terrible!" Not what he wanted to hear, not even from her. Especially not from her. "What's on your mind, Peter?" Some part of him bristled at the question while another found a mild humour in her timing. All day he'd wondered after her and now that he didn't want her company - or anyone's - here she was. Peter sank into his chair and stared sullenly into the fireplace.

"Not right now, Eliza." He gritted his teeth, hoping she would take the hint and leave, but she remained where she was, her gaze on him. He didn't want to see her expression because he was afraid of what it might be. Concern was almost worse than the possibility of anger.

Finally she moved, sinking down beside him on the couch, thankfully silent for a few long moments, her gaze following his to the logs. At last she cleared her throat, just a small sound. "It looks different when it's not lit." Stupid small talk, but a tremor ran through Peter anyway.

"I like it better like this." The words escaped him before he could stop them and he flinched a little. This time she saw it, even if she hadn't before. He could see the slight motion from the corner of his eye; her turning to look at him. Peter damned his small slip. Eliza was smart enough to put pieces together - she wasn't flighty and distracted as Alfred often was.

"You don't like fire, do you?" Eliza's voice was so quiet... he might not have heard it if he hadn't been sitting right beside her. Yet still he turned away from her a bit, head hunching into his shoulders. She didn't laugh, which was only a small part of what he'd feared. "It's okay, you know. There's nothing wrong with being afraid of something."

"I'm not afraid!" He snapped back, harsher than he'd intended. "I just don't like it, that's all!"

"Peter-" Her tone was gentle, placating, as she rested a hand against his arm. The voice, the touch... it reminded him too much of...

"Just stop it! Stop asking me questions! Stop patting me like I'm a stupid kid!" Whirled around, so quickly that he didn't even register the move, "Don't talk to me like that! You're not my MOM!" Dad. He'd intended to say Dad. It was the word on his lips...

It wasn't the word that came out though. Peter shuddered at the sound of it. How could it still hurt every time, after so long? He vaulted off of the couch, caught himself in the awkwardness of his own limbs, and hit the floor with a thump. Eliza was beside him in an instant, trying to help him up.

"It's okay!" There was something about her voice, soft but still frantic somehow. It wasn't until they'd been like that for a while and the blood was no longer pounding so hard in Peter's ears, that Eliza ventured another question. "Peter..." He knew what she was going to say and he couldn't stop it. "What happened to your mom?"

Blue eyes went wide, met Eliza's green ones and locked for a moment. Then he shoved her back, scrambled to his feet. Ran. He never looked back to see if she was following.

-0-


	3. Chapter 3

VII.

The tree house wasn't the best hiding place - he knew it as soon as he made the ascent. But he was too worn and upset to try finding another - and some part of him was a bit worried that he'd be too shaky to climb down right at the moment; how he'd gotten up there in his frantic state was still a mystery even to him. Still, there was no sign that anyone had followed him, and after nearly an hour of this silent vigil, Peter started to relax.

It wasn't to last, of course. Peter stiffened as he felt the quiver of someone climbing up to the tree house and it took all of his self control not to lean over the side and toss things down. "Go away!"

"Why should I?"

Peter blinked, peered over the edge. "Feli? What are you doing -" He cut off at the sight of that forbidding scowl. Not Feli. The other one. Lovino.

"I'm not Feliciano." The man barked back, brows drawn together. "And I was supposed to find you. Your loudmouthed friend wouldn't stop bothering me until I said I'd look. I didn't actually expect you to be here though..." He ran one hand through his hair and shrugged as if to say 'what can you do?'

"Who, Ace?" He scowled. Of course, who else? Eliza might have been nosy but she wasn't a loudmouth. "What does he want?" It was easier to be angry at Alfred - it didn't make him feel that same unhappy yawning sensation in his gut that Eliza had created with her concern.

"Something about Trick or Treating." Lovino shrugged. "I was mostly trying to ignore it. Ask him yourself if you want to know."

Halloween... and just the thought brought him back to memories of the last humiliation at Alfred's hands. The last of his melancholy burned away into hot anger. Fists clenched. "He's probably just going to get me back for trying to scare him!" Jerk.

Lovino smirked. "Why would he bother? It must be pretty bad if you can't even scare him."

It was no more than Peter had already been thinking, but it frustrated him all the more to hear it from someone else. He dragged his knees up to his chest, arms wrapping around them as he glared at Lovino. "Well, if you didn't mean to find me and you don't care if I get the message or not, then why did you even tell me?" The words came out muffled against his knees.

Eyes opened a little, the same gold colour as Feliciano's - but there was no way to mistake them, not now, not ever - "He really got to you, huh?"

Peter turned his head away,lips pulling back at the edges, flashing a hint of teeth. He didn't have to answer. He didn't. "Yeah." Once the first word hit the air, the rest followed. "He thinks he's so great! I wouldn't even have been surprised if I knew what was going on! He always expects everything I can think of because he's been here longer!" Lovino made a soft noise, maybe a snort, and Peter glanced at him sidelong, his eyes narrowed. The Italian was smiling, just a hint of an expression, maybe a smirk. "It's not funny!"

"Didn't say it was." Lovino tapped at his chin, eyes closing thoughtfully. "What if there was something he wouldn't expect?"

"What wouldn't he expect? He knows all of the stuff I could use to surprise him with!" The attempts to get back at Alfred had proven that much already.

The smirk was not recognisable now, "Not everything, I bet." Uncertainty crept across his features for a moment. "But what I'm thinking of is not a good idea of you're afraid easily."

"I'm not!" Peter yelped, jerking to his feet, fists balling. "Tell me how!"

"I can't." And when Peter moved like he might actually hit Lovino, the Italian recoiled just a little, raising both hands in supplication. "But I know someone who can."

"Take me to them then." Thoughts of Alfred's fear and humiliation filtered through his brain.

"Whatever you like." Lovino grinned. "Come on then, daylight's wasting."

-0-

"I know this place." The words slipped out before Peter could think better of them. Lovino's wanderings had led them back to the house, to the same old wooden hallway that Alfred had shown him before. But Lovino didn't bother with the doors at all, pausing in the same place Peter had spotted before, fleetingly. One hand went up, fingers snagging at the rope loop that was almost buried in the layer of dust. Lovino tugged and nothing happened.

Again. Dust and silt rained down on them and Peter almost flinched back but somehow kept himself steady. The trap door creaked, the wood all around it groaned in protest.

Once more, and it seemed the whole world was coming down around his ears. A shudder and then the door opened to black, to the smell of must and decay, the hit of old paper and pressed flowers. Lovino smiled, but something about it was odd and sharp. "After you."

Looking up at the dark at the top of the rickety wooden ladder, Peter swallowed. He put a foot on the lowest step and felt the entire thing shiver, giving an audible cream. He closed his eyes, took a breath, then climbed.

He emerged into shadow, though it wasn't pitch black. His head twisted around as he thought he saw something moving - a hint of light. Peter shifted to follow it, from curiousity or a desperation to have some visibility, and was drawn up short by a hand grabbing at his shoulder and making him jump.

"This way." Lovino's voice was low and there was a suspicious quiver to it.

_He's nervous!_

How Lovino could navigate in the absence of light, he wasn't sure. It went on and on until it felt as though he'd passed well beyond where the far wall should have been and then he saw it - the faint hint of light. A window. No. It was a door. Lovino nudged it open, motioned for Peter to go out ahead of him. With only a heartbeat's hesitation, Peter went.

Outside, and he stood on the flat expanse of a balcony. He'd never seen this from the ground. Some part of him tried to mentally place it from what he'd guessed of the positions of the sloping roof. A shimmer of moonlight glinting on silver caught his eye.

"Who are you?"

Peter's voice died in his throat as the woman drew herself up from among a nest of grinning gargoyles. Their stone faces were frozen in a million grimaces, each worse than the last. None were as frightening as the cold gleam in the woman's eyes. A pause, her head canting oh so slightly to the right.

"Peter Kirkland." Her voice was a sibilant hiss, and she straightened, the dangerous aura fading somewhat. "Why have you come to see me?"

"W-who are you?" He couldn't think of anything more intelligent to say.

Her eyes widened, just a fraction of a second before a smile crossed her lips. "I am Natalya. Who brought you here?"

"Er... Lovino." Peter didn't see why that mattered at all. "He said you could help me find something to scare Alfred. Something that he wouldn't expect."

Something about the narrow eyed stare she gave him made him feel small and grubby inside - a churning sensation in his gut. But he couldn't look away from her - had this inexplicable conviction that if he turned his gaze away she would be able to move far more quickly than he could run away. "Lovino?" She said at last, settling slightly and turning her gaze back to her pots.

It was a mockery of Feliciano's paints. Ceramic pots and glass jars but the array was almost grotesque. She drew her fingers over the canvas to trace the picture taking form, dipping hands into jars with their thick, globbish contents, not bothering with brush or sponge.

"And what will scare him, do you think?" It sounded almost conversational - he would have missed the words, he was so hypnotised by the motions of her hands, the red that he assumed - hoped - was paint.

"I'm not sure..." Peter had ideas of course, but so far fetched that they weren't even worth mentioning.

Her head turned, icy eyes looking to him. "You have something in your thoughts though." The steady glint of her eyes sent shivers through his small frame but he could not move away or even look away as she stepped closer. Fingers brushed his cheek, nails grazing against the smooth skin. Peter's eyes went wide, the unease turning to something colder and more solid, sending tendrils of ice down deep inside him.

"What is it you see in your dreams?"

- A face, but not a face, a concealing mask. His mother, shoving him behind her, toward the door. Her other hand on the handle of the pan, swinging. Hot oil splatters striking the man dead-on, a stray droplet against the side of his wrist and burning him. Burning. The world on fire.-

"N-nothing." He stumbled over the words and the sick feeling in his stomach. "Nothing important."

Natalya's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing of it. "Then tell me what you want. What will frighten this friend of yours?"

Peter thought of the restless dreams that haunted some of his nights - the safe ones. The ones that weren't memories. There were plenty of things to choose from. Plenty of dark fears and monsters in his subconscious, set free at night to wander in his not-quite nightmares.

"Close your eyes." Natalya's voice was low and somehow hypnotic. Peter let his eyes slip shut, feeling her fingers against his cheek again, a fleeting stroke. They were cold. He could feel a slight tingling on his skin as she applied more pressure, her fingers pressing into the softness of his cheeks. "Something with teeth, I think. You have such small teeth... not at all frightening." Her thumb flicked at the edge of his lips as he began to speak, cutting him off. The tingle felt deeper than before, beneath his skin. His jaw ached with the touch, but he couldn't tell that it was cold anymore. It felt almost... hot... now.

He gave a slight gasp, the air rushing past his lips and then he could feel it, the odd yawning stretch of his jaw. A tooth grazed his lower lip, sharp and long, and he could taste the slight copper tang of blood. "What...?"

"Hush." That soft whisper again, not quite a hiss. "I'm not done with you yet."

What? Done how? But the words didn't come. He couldn't pull away, couldn't open his eyes. Natalya's fingers followed the curve of his jaw upward and pulled, fingers kneading and shaping, a sculptor with clay. And somehow, beneath her touch, he wasn't a person but a canvas taking form.

It wasn't possible. But it was.

"Spread your arms." It came to him from far away. "Tell me, do you dream of flying, Peter Kirkland?" What a question. Who didn't? She didn't wait for his answer, her hands on his, pulling again. It was a stretching sensation, the crackle of shifting bone as his hands came out of their form. It should have hurt but there was only that pervasive hot/cold through his nerve endings. A choked noise - from himself perhaps - and she turned those eyes upon him again. "Hush." His skin hung loose, something out of his nightmares, but at least they were the other nightmares, the ones that faded when he woke.

He wasn't afraid.

He felt the hands shift, shaping the curve of legs, the bare feet. Claws scraped the ground but he was still Peter.

A pause and he could sense her scrutiny, hear it in her voice. "Much better. But still, you're missing something..." Moments in excruciating silence, then she grazed her nails against his skin. "Ah, of course."

And then the tingle was back, all over his body now. There was a brief flare of warmth and then he felt for the first time, the night wind stirring at his fur. His eyes opened and the dark was still dark, but he could see clearly in it. Natalya's expression was one of cool satisfaction, but not quite a smile.

"That is a good bit of magic."

Peter ignored her - the other night sounds loud in his ears: leaves rustling, the fitful chirping of frogs, the loud buzz of cicadas drilling right through him. His claws scraped at the balcony, a skittering rasp, spreading arms - no wings... what boy has not wanted a pair of wings, after all? - shaking them until the folds unfurled. They should have been leathery, as befitted a monster, but he had the odd sense that they were silk instead, sensitive to every small shift of the air.

He couldn't see himself, but he could feel the power in his limbs, the tingle of magic and the sharpness of his teeth. A sound near the door and he turned to see Lovino there, looking nervous. More than that, he could smell the nervousness, taste it on the air. It was delicious. His heartbeat quickened to it.

"Your friend is looking for you." Lovino said, the quaver in his voice betraying his fear if the rest hadn't. The Italian shrank back but there was no need; Peter's attention wasn't on him anymore. The sound of his own name on the air captivated him. He knew that voice - Alfred - but that was what drew him to the edge of the balcony.

Behind he heard the slight shuffle of movement, Natalya's words. "You wear your new form well, Peter Kirkland. Will you go to him now?"

"Looking like that, you're sure to scare the smugness out of him," Lovino piped in. Natalya turned a look upon him and he wilted. "W-well, he won't expect it, anyway..."

Lovino was right, but Peter was beyond paying him any mind. He was perched on the edge of the balcony, his new wings fluttering. The air shifted as Natalya drew near. "Can you fly?" His eyes widened as he looked to the ground far below. He wasn't sure, though some part of him sang out to leap. This felt like a dream, and in his dreams he never fell. "You're not afraid." He shook his head. He wasn't afraid, but...

A firm hand on his back, pushing, and then he was falling forward, a dizzying view of the ground and sky tumbling together all around him. For a split second he was dead, thoughts beginning to lock with the first stirrings of fear, and then his body took over, wings snapping open and filling with air.

_/Flying is only the art of forgetting how to fall.../_

He barely heard it through the wind in his face: the sound of his own name. It seared through him. A slight flick of his wings and he was banking widely, moving toward the source of the irritation.

It was Alfred - no surprise - dressed in that cowboy costume he favoured so much. He looked up as Peter swooped near, folding wings into a dive. The world suspended in an instant and for that second it was perfect. Just what he'd wanted to see, the shock and fear beneath. He passed Alfred only a moment later, the edge of a wing catching the boy in the shoulder and knocking him flat.

Surprise flitted through Peter as this threw him off course and sent him crashing into the brush. He hissed as he emerged from the bushes, pausing as he saw Alfred pushing himself to an upright position. He could hear the pounding of the boy's heart, even from where he was standing, and the expression on Alfred's face was almost what he'd hoped for. Almost, but not quite. He edged closer and saw Alfred shuffle back a step, eyes narrowing.

Peter stumbled as the edge of his sleeve - still on... how was it still on? It seemed odd? - caught on a branch. He hadn't noticed the cuts on his arms until now. They stung and the smell of blood was heavy in his nostrils. He gave the fabric a tug and felt it rip away in his hand.

"Is that..." Alfred's voice came to him and he thought he'd been discovered already, but the words surprised him. "That's Peter's... W-what have you done to Peter?"

Amazing. Just bloody amazing.

And frustrating too, because Alfred was now more belligerent than frightened. All this and he still couldn't scare the idiot. Just him and his damn ghosts. Surging forward, he bared his teeth in a snarl - _be afraid damn you!_ - Alfred blanched slightly, but didn't move. Peter could hear the blood pounding in his ears, it was maddening. His claws scraped the ground, a flash of uncertainty at the sheer force of the mental images that slammed into him.

Tearing. Sinking teeth into that vulnerable flesh.

Hunger.

And... oh god, he just ate, that shouldn't... he wasn't... he couldn't...

"Why not?" His head jerked, the sound of Natalya's voice in his ears, though she wasn't there. "You dream of worse things, Peter Kirkland." He quivered, caught in place. His eyes locked with Alfred's and he lurched forward a step, drawn by some dark need he couldn't understand. Alfred didn't move, through the tremble in his shoulders and the tight line of his lips, Peter could read both his uncertainty and his determination.

Not even Peter was sure what he intended to do, trapped in the gaze as surely as Alfred, and then he felt the sharp bite of pain on his wing, heard a low warning hiss. His body moved on instinct, wings furling back. Claws scraped through the thin membrane as the appendage struck a tree, so hard it sent numbness quivering through it for a moment. There was a strangled yowl and the sound of snapping branches - but not branches. Not at all...

The sound tore through him, froze him in place.

It was enough.

Peter turned his head, eyes widening, then stumbled as he was shoved aside. Alfred was past him in a heartbeat, on his knees only a short distance away. The predatory part of Peter saw the bare vulnerability of the other boy's back, but he fought the urge to pounce. Sidling closer, he felt the pounding of his own heart, of Alfred's heart. The thready too-fast patter of another, and then he could smell the salt copper scent on the air.

"There will not be a better time, Peter Kirkland. Never a better time to show what you're made of. Does your outside match your inside now?"

No, he wanted to refute, but the words would not come above the ache and the hunger. Another step nearer and Alfred turned his head to look in Peter's direction, tight-lipped but still not fear. Never that. Turned further, a twist of the shoulders and Peter could finally see what had attacked him.

Gupta's spotted sides rose and fell in sharp bursts. Peter could smell blood, but not strongly. It wasn't until the cat looked at him directly that he knew something was wrong.

_He can see pyramids in the warm gold of those eyes, the sweeping dunes, the Nile flowing over its banks and the faces of a thousand people who lived, died, lived, in that beautiful but unforgiving land. The sands drifting away, bleeding out like an hourglass, and the sun setting in the Western lands, where all dying things go._

Gupta's head dropped, fell back against the grass and the spell holding Peter in place was gone, just like that. Just that fast. He backed up a step and felt that prodding voice in his mind.

"It's just a cat. And your prey is still here, but he won't be for long. It's now or never, Peter Kirkland."

The disgust in him was a surge stronger than the hunger, washing it away, leaving clean anger in its wake. "Then it's never. Never!"

Alfred stared at him and Peter was realising that he hadn't heard Natalya, if her voice had even been there. "W-what are you...?"

"Go." Peter told him, all he could force from his throat. Alfred hesitated, motioned as though he would lift Gupta, then recoiled at the roar. "Now!" If Peter had cared, he might have noticed the fear he'd wanted so badly to see as Alfred stumbled back a few steps, turned, then took off at a fast lope through the trees.

Peter brushed the clawed tip of a wing gently along Gupta's side and felt the tingle as the fur touched his leathery appendage. The sensation flickered up through his arm, digits receding into themselves, fur and membrane sloughing away until the only thing left was the human boy beneath, grubby and scratched and trembling in the chilly autumn air.

Then Natalya was there, her skirts and hair fluttering. How she'd come so quickly was anyone's guess. _Magic,_ he thought, _the answer is always magic._ Her voice was brisk and distasteful. "Cats. They're always ruining the best spells, damn them. Come away from that thing and I'll put the spell back."

"No thank you." Peter gave her his bravest smile, despite himself, hands sliding carefully beneath Gupta's limp form. His fingers were warm and sticky, he could feel the fur matting and clumping beneath his palms. The flutter of Gupta's heartbeat against his fingertips was erratic and slowing. Yao. He had to get Gupta to Yao...

Natalya was silent so long that Peter hoped she would say nothing as he gathered the wounded cat to his chest, but she did speak as he turned to leave. "I thought you had the spark, Peter Kirkland. I saw it in your dreams, bright as a flame. You disappoint me."

"Yeah... there's a lot of that going around." He mumbled the words, but softly, as he sidled past her. His steps were slow at first, speeding up as he could sense her turn and feel the cold burn of her eyes on his retreating back.

-0-

IX.

"Yao!" He pushed past the back door and into the house, going straight for the kitchen where Yao could normally be found. The man looked to him, surprise surfacing briefly in his dark eyes. "Peter?" The words died on his lips, though it wasn't clear if he'd seen Gupta or just the expression on Peter's face. He pushed to his feet with an abruptness that sent his teacup flying to the floor. He didn't even flinch at the loud crack of it shattering.

"What's the matter-" Then Yao fell silent, one hand reaching out to brush against Gupta's fur. "Give him to me." Through the trembling of his fingers, Peter was still able to hold out the injured cat. Yao's hands were steady as he lifted Gupta from Peter's arms, murmuring soft words in a language that Peter couldn't understand.

"Can you help him?" Guilt tangled itself around his insides as Yao sank back into his chair, Gupta resting on his lap.

"I'm afraid not."

He wasn't sure why that surprised him, except that it was said so simply, so matter of fact. "But..."

Yao's gaze rose to meet his own, silencing the words before they could come. He stroked Gupta's short fur, a smile playing about his lips, wistful. "Sometimes-" and here his voice became so quiet that Peter wasn't sure he was hearing right. "I know when it's young, it can be hard to understand, but death is not always a terrible thing. Sometimes if you live long enough, if you're tired and worn enough, sometimes death can come as a release." Yao raised his head and smiled that smile with no joy behind it. "Gupta is an old cat, Peter." He raised up a hand to brush away the wetness Peter hadn't even noticed running down his cheeks. "Don't cry, young one. When it's the right time, death is nothing to be afraid of."

"But that's not..."

"Hush." Yao petted at Gupta's trembling side with a gentle hand. "An xin de xiu xi ba, Gupta."  
The words were still in that language, the one that Peter didn't understand. Then, softly, "It's almost time for presents, Peter. You should go."

"I want to stay." What else could he say? 'Sorry I turned into a monster and killed your cat?' He wasn't sure he'd be believed anyway. And... he had to stay. The guilt would eat him alive if he didn't. He knew it from experience. Peter reached out a hand, fingers brushing at Gupta's ears. The cat looked at him again - through him - and opened his mouth in a soundless mew.

The tears came then, hot and fast. He couldn't hold them back. He wasn't sure he wanted to try.

It wasn't what he'd expected, if he'd expected something. A shallow breath one moment and none the next. On the outside, nothing looked different, but Peter was all too aware of the change. One moment, there was Gupta, who had spent many evenings curled in his lap and purring, who had listened to his ramblings without judgment, and in the next there was just an empty husk. A shell devoid of life and personality.

He'd done this.

Yao gave him a look, his dark eyes seeming to see right through Peter for a moment. "Life is too precious to waste in regret and sorrow. You have a bright spirit, Peter... one of the brightest I've ever seen. Don't let this dim you. Grieve for a moment and then go on."

A few uncertain steps, to the doorway, a glance back to Yao, still sitting there, looking somehow older and fragile in the dim light. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me." Yao rose to his feet, his cat held against his chest, idling toward the outside door. "Time is growing short, child. Go make the most of it."

He didn't understand. He wasn't sure he _could_ understand, but he went.

-0-

Translations:

"An xin de xiu xi ba, Gupta." -_"You may rest without worry now, Gupta."_


	4. Chapter 4

X.

Opening presents was a lonely affair that night. Alfred's gifts were already gone when he arrived and he could only guess that the other boy had taken them and fled back to the safety of his room. He wasn't sure he could face Alfred anyway - not tonight.

Elizaveta's gifts were still there; sitting beneath the tree, untouched. He drew his own to him, unwrapped with fingers that did not fly with the enthusiasm of past days. It was a plush dog given to him by his Uncle Berwald, back in the days when his mother's family had still come every year. The name "Flower-Egg" was engraved on the collar, an addition by his Uncle Berwald's 'roommate'. Peter knew better now of course. He bit his lip, still feeling that twinge of deep anger at his father. It wasn't enough to dislodge the anger at himself though.

No use sitting around, wallowing in self pity. He was keenly aware of Yao's words to him as he set the stuffed puppy back into the box. He should have gone to see Alfred, he told himself, but his feet thought differently. They carried him down the hall to Elizaveta's room.

It only now occurred to him that he hadn't seen her at all today - nor yesterday. Concern settled into his belly as he knocked at her door. "Eliza? Are you there? Is everything okay?" No answer, but the odd soft scrape of something moving on the inside. Peter felt a twinge of superstitious fear creep through him, though he wasn't sure why. "Eliza?" He reached for the handle, jiggled it. Locked. "This isn't funny!"

"Peter?" The voice came after a long pause, and it was Eliza's voice, but somehow... off.

"Are you okay?" His own concern surprised him.

"Yes." The affirmative still sounded a lot more like a 'no' to him. "I'm fine, Peter."

"Are you sure? Do you need me to come in?" He jiggled the handle again and heard the metal shifting but remaining stubbornly set in place. The click of metal moving against metal echoed through him, loud and hollow.

"No." The word dropped into the empty pit of his middle. There was that oddness to it again, an almost liquid quality. Like tears.

"Eliza." He slammed his fist against the wooden edge of the doorframe and winced, shaking his had before drawing a sharp, frustrated breath and turning away a little, letting his back brace against the door. "You're upset with me, aren't you?" He remembered the conversation of earlier. "I just... I don't like talking about it, that's all. You caught me by surprise." One second, cheerful conversation about the stupidest, most trivial of things, the next: the one subject he feared most to broach. Even now it was hard for him to think on it without feeling that same churning sensation in his gut. He swallowed then let his weight pull his body down until he was sitting.

"My mom..." The corner of his mouth twitched a little - not in humour. "You probably would've liked her, Eliza. She was a little like you. Tough, I mean. My dad...he's tough too and he's good at running things and stuff but you know when she talked about something who was going to win. But she was nice too, like you. She smiled all the time." He could barely remember her face now, these years later, her real smile. The image in the photograph was emblazoned into his memory, every detail, but trying to remember the nuances was like

There was still no response from the other side of the door, Peter might well have been talking to an empty room. After all this time though, it would have been harder to stop and put those emotions back where they belonged.

"She died though-" and that was the end of the story, or should've been, but somehow Arthur had found a way to get past that. Bad enough that Arthur would replace his mother, but with someone... some man that Peter had never met and wouldn't like and why...? Why?

A slight shuffle from the other side of the door and words so tangible that he could hear them without them ever having to be spoken.

How?

His tongue flicked across his lips, his mind wandering to another place, another broken connection and the heavy weight of a dying cat in his palms. He swallowed. "Someone tried to rob our house." So simple, the words, too plain to express the impact of the situation. A robbery and the man chose that house, that day. Peter playing guilelessly in the dining room, little wooden boat and the sailors spread across the table as his mother cooked, counting down the time until the food in the oven was done. Vegetables on the stove top, bubbling in their pot, pan of hot oil on the back burner.

He would never know why. Just the surprise and panic as he was grabbed and jerked against the man's solid form, toys scattering carelessly across the hardwood floor, threatened with harm if they would not give the man everything. . It might have made another woman docile but not her. Never her.

Swinging the pot of vegetables. Boiling water everywhere. The man howling and striking back, sending her careening into the stove and the splatter of hot oil. A mishmash of confusing images. Agonising pain across his hand, so sharp and sudden. The world turned around him, his awareness blacked out enough that he missed the rest. He woke to fire, came back to himself with the heat on his skin and his mother already on the floor, bleeding from a blow to the head.

Peter had never known if she'd been dead or just unconscious, the kitchen caught ablaze and the flames burning fear though his veins...

Running. Running. Blanking out somewhere along the way into a state of blissful nothingness until he found himself sitting on a swingset in the dark, his toes dragging the ground in the dim light of the streetlamps. That was where he stayed until the wee hours of morning when the police found him and brought him to Arthur. Not home though - there was no home anymore.

"Dad and I-" had it been so long since he'd thought of Arthur simply as his father? He didn't remember the last time. "We didn't do so well after... you know... Maybe it's easier when you've only lost one thing. Maybe it's less like the entire world is falling out from under you." Maybe, maybe, maybe... "I guess that sounds stupid."

"No." It was the first reply he'd gotten throughout, and still so quiet he could barely be sure he'd heard it at all. "It doesn't." He let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"You're angry at me, aren't you?" A pause again, but he knew she was there and he waited.

"No." Pause again, and he could hear the need to say more. And she did, at last. "You're different than I am, Peter." He couldn't know what she meant and the tone of her voice had something empty behind it, something desolate that Peter felt he didn't want to hear. But he couldn't block the words out as they came. "You have someone who still cares about you. You have a life. Why did you come here?"

Peter let out a breath, damning the truth. It sounded so thoughtless, in the face of everything. "I was bored." Bored of his life, angry with it, with the helplessness and the gnawing unhappiness. Smiles to cover up all the words he couldn't say to his father. But how could he explain that to Eliza? What experience did they share that could relate?

"We should never have met, Peter." The words were a sigh, still with that odd undertone, like being on the verge of crying. "You should never have come. I don't know if I'm more happy or sad for that..."

"Eliza-"

"Don't stand there outside my door. You have other things to do. You shouldn't waste your time here."

It sounded like something Yao would say, but he wasn't certain why. He knocked again when Elizaveta fell silent for a long time. Knocked and knocked until his knuckles were sore and the dark wrapped in around him. And when he could finally knock no more, when his body finally dragged him down, the sound of knocking remained, ringing in his ears and following him down into the depths of sleep.

.

XI.

He woke up with a jolt, sat up to find himself in his own room, struggling with disorientation. It didn't align with his memories of the previous night and he wasn't sure if it was real - if any of this was real.

There was no one to ask. He didn't see Elizaveta that morning. He didn't see Alfred either. Yao was there though, sitting in the kitchen, silent and thoughtful as always. After spotting him from the doorway, Peter skipped out on breakfast - there were too many things that accompanied it that he didn't want to face. Not yet.

Bereft of any companionship, Peter slogged through his day, not daring to take refuge in any of his usual spots. A summer afternoon, whiled away by dozing beneath the trees in the orchard. He woke to the chill in the air, fed on cookies snatched from the plate beside the Christmas tree - still as beautiful as ever, but it seemed somehow lonely without the others - and finally he curled up a safe distance away from the fire, feeling the heat of it permeate his bones.

He wasn't sure when he dozed off, exactly, but it had happened somewhere - in some moment he couldn't bring to mind. He was wakened by the soft scrape of something moving in the room. He jolted, seeing a figure lit only by the dim glow of the fire. "Who's there?"

A rustle, the sound of something skittering across the wooden floor and a familiar voice, barely audible. "I brought you something."

"Eliza?" He turned his head, straining to peer through the darkness. "Where are you?"

"Don't look." There was an odd undertone to her voice. "Close your eyes..." And when he didn't seem like he would listen, she added in a whisper, "please."

"I don't understand, Eliza. What's going on?" But he did as she asked, closing his eyes. His muscles twitched at every sound, the shuffle of her approach. He wanted to look. He needed to.

But he'd promised...

"Hold out your hands..." Peter had to concentrate to keep from shaking a bit as he held out both hands, palms up. He almost recoiled as he felt a drop of cold water against his wrist, then another. What? He had a second shock as something tiny tumbled gently into his palm. Another. Then another, each slightly smaller than his thumb. Cold water accompanied each of these, seeping from them to puddle against the groove of his lifeline before trickling down his fingers. "I'm sorry." There was a tremble of apology in Eliza's voice that was so unfamiliar it made his chest hurt. "This was all I could find."

His fingers clenched around them, finding the shapes to be oddly familiar. His thumb brushed against the ridges of one as his brows furrowed. His nail clipped the edge of one of the protruding parts - a solid middle with a rounded top section and four parts sticking out... He almost dropped them as the realisation fluttered through him. Small wooden figures...

"Eliza!" He opened his eyes and caught only the brief flash of movement as her dark figure turned away from him and dashed for the door. He nearly tumbled over himself trying to follow.

There was still lingering snow on the ground as Peter went out the front door. He didn't even notice the cold on his bare toes, only the faint tracks that led away into the trees. In he went, plunged headlong into the night. The winding trail stole away a sense of time, until he emerged into a clearing at last.

Moonlight filtered down unobstructed, glinting on the dark water. For a moment, the shift blinded him. A hand raised to cover his eyes, droplets still clinging to his fingers. The small figures were like ice against his skin. Cold... four little sailors, the remainder of his captain and crew, dredged up from the depths of the lake where no human could have found them.

No human... but in the silver moonlight he could see the glint of dark scales along Elizaveta's arms, her feet as bare as his own with toes standing stark against the flat black glimmer of the stones ringing the lake. Her long brown hair clung to her shoulders and back, clothes plastered close to her body. From this angle, he couldn't see her face...

"Eliza!" He called out, a desperate note to his voice. She hesitated, he could see the tenseness in her body, weight shifting toward the water. "Wait!" Though he hadn't been expecting it, she remained where she was, silent and still on the rock as he approached. Something cold and slimy crawled through him as he drew nearer and could see the scales protruding from her arms more clearly, the slight webbing between the fingers of her hands. His breath shivered out of him. "What's happened to you?" He bit his lip, remembering Natalya and wondering if she had something to do with this. When Eliza didn't answer, he reached out a hand, dropping the little sailors to the ground, forgotten. "Eliza?"

"Don't... don't touch me..." He stopped just short of brushing her arm. "Don't look at me. Go back to the house."

"Eliza..." He couldn't think of anything else to say, save the useless repetition of her name.

"You don't belong here, Peter." The tone of her voice made him ache deep inside, a desolation he couldn't understand.

"Come back to the house with me!" He threw the words back, earnest and desperate. "You don't belong here either, Eliza!" Though he couldn't be sure if this words were a lie, if Eliza was still human enough to not belong to the depths of the lake like so many other fish...

"But I do..." She turned her head slightly and he could see her face in silhouette, scales on her cheeks, still glistening wet.

Peter bit at his lower lip, worried at it with his teeth before blurting. "That's stupid Eliza! Just come back with me and you'll see-"

"I can't." Another slight change, a turn of her head and he could see her green eyes, the colour gone flat and dark like the water below. "My life is over. I've been here so long, Peter."

He didn't know what she meant, but he'd be damned if he let her disappear into that lake - the loss of yet another person he cared about. "You don't have to! Just take my hand!" He held it out to her, saw the flash in her eyes for a moment that reminded him so much of the old Elizaveta... Hope surged through him in a warm tide. It was washed away by shock as their fingertips merely brushed for a moment then broke contact, She took a step away, wavered on the edge for a moment as Peter stood there, senses refusing to register.

She was smiling...

"Thank you, Peter..." She breathed the words and the world moved in slow motion. Her body fell toward the lake. Peter could do nothing as she hit the water with barely a splash. It swallowed her up and left only the faintest ripples that disappeared into the same glass-perfect sheen. Peter didn't register moving, or screaming, yet despite his lack of memory in those two moments, he could not bring himself to enter that flat, cold water.

He dropped to his knees, giving a pained keen in his throat as he looked into the lake, barely managing to crawl away from it and find the figures he'd dropped. He almost threw them in - would have, if it it would have brought her back. Peter clutched them close to his chest and made small noises that weren't really anything. His last conscious memory was the feel of the damp grass and the damp sailors in his hands. Past that, the world descended into nothingness, dark and deep and filled with creatures circling plaintively in the black.

.

XII.

It was still dark when he stirred, pushing himself to his feet and feeling the empty ache somewhere in his chest. He struggled back toward the house, tucking the damp figures into his pocket. Peter wasn't even aware of what he was doing, of the cold against his bare feet as he moved. He broke from the trees and froze as he saw a shadow coming down from the porch, moving toward him at a run.

"Peter!" Alfred was on him in a flash, a tackling hug that almost sent him to the grass. A babble of sounds were muffled against his shirt, only becoming clear as Alfred straightened up. "I thought you were dead!" It took only a moment for him to figure out that Al still didn't know he'd been the creature from the previous night. But that was a small detail. The important part was that Alfred was alive. He was here and not swimming in the dark water of the lake.

"We have to go-" he shushed the flurry of questions before they could surface and slow them down. "We need to get out of here, right now."

"I don't understand, Peter... what's going on? What was that creature the other day?" A pause. "Shouldn't we get Eliza first? We can't leave without her!"

Peter felt a shudder go through him and he choked back the tightness in his throat. "She's gone, Ace. She's not coming..." He didn't wait for the shock to sink in on Alfred's face, grabbing hold of the other boy's hand and tugging, leading him up past the porch. Through the screen door, he could see Heracles and Kiku's fuzzy faces peering out at them.

Out and forward until they reached the edge of the mist that lingered at the borders – a place that Peter could find, even in the dark. He didn't hesitate, but plunged right in, towing Alfred behind. A few steps and the fog swallowed them up, so thick and cloying that he couldn't see anything. It was a physical presence almost, dulling his senses. He didn't let that deter him. The fog was thinning around them. Hope surged as he saw hints of colour coming through.

Hey emerged from the fog, vision taking a moment to clear before the surroundings registered. The familiar trees and the vague shadowy form of the house in the distance.

"I don't understand..." Alfred mumbled. Peter ignored his words, just tightening his grip on Alfred's hand. They went into the mist again and again. Again and again, it only led them back to the house, the far side of the fog unreachable. Alfred looked at him expectantly, more confused than angered.

"Damn it!" Peter swore at last. "Magic! I should've known it wouldn't be that easy!"

"What should we do then?" Alfred grimaced a little, casting nervous glances over his shoulder. He wasn't the only one jumping at the shifting shadows; Peter's hands trembled a little, his heartbeat going erratic at the faintest shift of the wind.

"We came in this way, it has to be possible to get out again..." If it wasn't then the two of them were doomed to the same fate as Eliza. He gritted his teeth, grip tightening on Alfred's wrist until his fingers cramped, nails scraping at the other boy's skin as he strode back into the fog.

Again. Again. Every time they were spit back out right where they'd started - it didn't matter what direction or speed they were going at when they entered or how carefully Peter set one foot in front of the other. He could have sworn it was a straight line but here they were. "Damn it!"

"That's not nice to say." The words from behind them made Peter recoil so sharply he lost his balance, stumbling against Alfred as the two of them stared in the direction of the voice. It was Feli who emerged from the dim, cheerful and clueless as ever, and Peter thanked whatever gods there might be in this place that it wasn't Lovino. Or Gilbert.

Or Natalya...

"Sorry, Feli," Peter wasn't sure what Feliciano would do at finding out what they were trying, but he tried to err on the side of caution. "We were just out for a walk." Quick, what was a good reason to let loose with a swear word? "I-I stubbed my foot on a rock." It was a lousy excuse - it stank of the lie, his own unease lending a shake to his voice.

But the man nodded guilelessly. "You should watch where you step!" Sunny smile. "Did you like the gifts, ve? What about cookies? Did you have cookies?"

"S-sure we did. Delicious cookies. Right, Ace?" He jabbed Alfred in the middle with his elbow, trying to encourage him to get with the program. "

"Wha? Yeah. Awesome cookies. Better than ice cream." Without even having to speak, the both of them began to back toward the mist wall behind them.

"You should try them!" The moment Peter said it he knew it was a mistake, swallowed the rest of the words that were trying to choke him. Fuck. They would have to make a run for it... if only there wasn't that stupid magic or whatever that was making it impossible to actually get anywhere.

"But you said I shouldn't-" Feliciano fell silent, brows furrowing. His expression clouded as he finally figured out what was going on. "What are you doing, ve?" The Italian might have been clueless but he wasn't a complete idiot about what they were doing. "Are you trying to leave?" Hurt laced his tone. "But you can't leave!"

"We have to." No use explaining but none in fighting either. He doubted Feli could stop them.

"But if you keep trying to leave, Grandpa will send Sadiq to bring you back!"

"Sadiq?" Peter froze, tremors running up and down his spine at the tone of Feli's voice. "Who is-" He didn't finish, couldn't, as a scream filled the air, the shriek of an animal. They all jerked at the noise, Peter looking up as a shadow fell across him, a glimpse of wings and teeth and he barely managed to duck in time. Something grazed his shoulder, there was a flash of pain. As Peter faltered he could hear a yell - the language was gibberish to his ears but the voice was familiar. Yao.

The adult was approaching them from the direction of the house, moving at a fast clip, worry bright in his eyes. Confusion and panic hung in the air as the strange creature swooped upward for another pass. Peter eyed the house, too far away, then turned his gaze back to the confounding wall of mist. Alfred tugged urgently at his arm. "We'll never make it through there!"

"Peter!" Yao called and he was close enough that the boy could make out the shape of the cat he was carrying in his arms. "Come back to the house!"

"I can't!" He yelled back, hoping Yao could understand. He didn't want to disappoint one of the few people whose opinion mattered to him. "Eliza's gone, Yao! I can't stay! We have to get out of here!" He angled toward the fog wall as the large form in the sky banked back toward them.

There was a moment he didn't expect, that he couldn't, as Yao was silent for a few seconds before calling his name again. "You'll never find the path through!" Then: "Follow Kiku, Peter! He can show you the way." Peter turned his head back just in time to see Yao step forward and toss the cat in his arms. The small white and red form twisted gracefully in the air before landing on its feet right beside the boys. Peter didn't hesitate, but caught hold of Alfred's hand and plunged back into the mist, his eyes locked on the splash of red fur across Kiku's back, the only thing he could make out in the fog.

It was harder going forward than he remembered from his first time with Gilbert - the fog had weight to it, it was like slogging through heavy syrup. But even through the odd distortion of it, the weird sense of taking forever and yet no time at all, he could finally see light and he prayed to whatever deities he could think of that it was home and not the house again.

A shriek behind him, somewhat muffled, spurred his steps. Forward, forward, then he broke through on the other side and stumbled as he hit the empty air. It was grey, dingy, lit by a single street lamp just a short way in the distance. The stumble saved him though, as the flying form swept past, so close that he was caught in the backwash of air. The tenor of the sound changed, pain lacing the tone as the creature hit the ground.

Peter could see more details now, the wings tearing, small wounds opening on its body from no visible source. Maybe it was just from being there - the mundane of the world was shredding the magic that made this creature. Every moment melted it away a little more, the form beneath seeming to shudder and shift - for a few seconds he thought he could see the shape of a man beneath, wreathed in fabric that mimicked the beast. He wasn't sure though, because the creature gave an agonized shriek and dragged itself back toward the wall of mist, clawing desperately at the ground. Slowly the battered monster disappeared from view, swallowed up by the fog.

Relief washed through Peter, the chase was over. They were home. He caught one final glimpse of the wall behind them, of a curious feline face peering back at them but not venturing further, and he smiled. "Thank you, Kiku." Quieter, "Thank you, Yao..."

"Peter?" Alfred's voice. Peter looked to the boy as they finally let go of each other's hands. "We did it right? This is real?"

Peter swallowed and nodded. He couldn't be sure, but it felt... different from the world beyond the wall somehow. It felt real. "Yeah, we're home." He tore his thoughts to another path, he couldn't think about the house and who else should have been standing here with them now. He bit at his lip. "You know your way back from here?"

"My house isn't far." Alfred looked to Peter and for the first time his expression was uncertain. "Hey... we'll still see each other, right? Now that we're back, I mean."

He couldn't help a slight, wry smile at that. "Yeah, Ace. We will. Promise."

The other boy lit up at that. "Awesome." And when he turned, to go in the opposite direction, he cast a sunny grin back over his shoulder at Peter. "Meet back here after this is all worked out?" He shook his head a little, giving a shrug of his shoulders. "My mom is going to kill me for being gone so long!"

There was no biting back the smile at that. "Sounds good, Ace. Sounds like a plan."

He stood there as Alfred ran off, feeling an odd sense of emptiness, of something missing. His breath came out in a soft sigh. Eliza... It took some effort to keep the quiver from his lip, one hand snaking down into his pocket, where he'd put her last gift to him. Peter drew out the wooden sailors, staring down at them on his palm. Eyes widened a little at how little they weighed, the solidness of them dissolving in his hand until there was nothing but dust sitting against his skin for a moment before being snatched away by the night breeze.

Magic. All magic. None of it was real here.

Through the tightness in his chest, he thanked Eliza too. Wherever - whatever - she was now...

-0-

He knew the path home, but with everything that had already happened he felt a sense of disorientation - a swimminess in his head. A stranger stopped to ask if he needed help and despite the danger and all the warnings he'd ever heard, he found himself giving the man his address; casting his fate to the winds and hoping. The world wavered around him during the entire car trip. When they stopped, he was scarcely aware of his surroundings, of being picked up and carried. There was something familiar to the place as soon as he crossed the threshold. A sense or a smell, and it relaxed him. He felt his eyelids drooping, sleep dragging him down. A voice came to him in the last remnants of his awareness, calling his name.

_It's okay, Papa... I'm home..._ And then he knew nothing.

.

XIII.

Awareness crept over him only gradually. Light was coming in the windows, falling in a familiar path across his face. He threw an arm over his eyes and groaned. That was all the time it took for realisation to make its way in around the edges. He sat up so rapidly that it made him dizzy, found that it wasn't his room back at the Hetalia House. It was his own room, just as he remembered. He was back.

Peter slipped out of his bed, silent as a ghost, and walked down the hallway as easily as if he'd never left - toward the stairs, down, to the sitting room. There his father sat, back to where he stood... so quiet, he barely registered. Relief snaked through him. So, this was real, after all.

As he stepped forward his foot scraped across the hardwood floor and he saw the brief flinch in his father's shoulders. Peter froze in place as Arthur turned to look at him, his mouth open in a greeting that died on his lips. Not right... something was not right. Arthur's blonde hair had gone mostly silver, save for a few streaks, the worry lines around his mouth and eyes were more prominent. He looked...

He looked old. Old and worn...

"W-what's the matter with you?" Peter blurted out the words without thinking about them.

Arthur looked at him with a very similar expression, muted shock. "What's wrong with me? You're the odd one here, Peter. You haven't changed at all..."

Eyes wide. "What do you mean?" How much did a person change in four weeks? "Why would I have changed?"

"What do I-" Arthur's words faltered, lapsed into a long pause and Peter could feel the unease and the sense of wrongness mounting with every silent second. "...it's been twenty-eight years since you disappeared Peter..." Arthur's hands trembled a little but apart from that, and the look of disbelief that refused to leave his eyes, he was steady. "Twenty-eight years... and you haven't aged... not at all."

Peter said nothing, could say nothing. His mouth opened but the words would not come, drowned out by the pounding in his ears, the repetition running through his head in an unending mantra.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight.

Not a month. Not even close.

His hands shook. The quiver went straight down through his limbs. His legs wobbled and it was only a bit of gentle guidance from his father - twenty-eight years older, ye gods... - that got him into a sitting position on the couch. A cup of hot tea was shoved into his grasp and he almost choked on the first sip. The second got caught somewhere in his throat but the third went through, sending a slow diffusion of warmth through his body. The shaking began to ease, but slowly.

Even so, he didn't register most of what Arthur was saying to him. The worry came through in the shift of his pitch, a few words standing out here and there.

Arthur hadn't known where he'd gone. All that song and dance about his father signing him up for this, it had all been lies. It was the only thing in his head really. The impossibility of it didn't matter. People didn't just lose twenty-eight years.

Magic. Magic had stolen away those precious moments. The food that Arthur set in front of him sat heavy in his stomach, a thick lump. He hadn't even had the presence of mind to register the nastiness of this lunch; his father's cooking unimproved by nearly three decades of practice. Peter shuffled it around on his plate, unimportant. His mind was already somewhere else - a house and lake and a girl there, lost to the murky waters. His thoughts were still caught in the place, how it felt more real in the here and now than the real world did.

Being back home was not the escape he'd expected; in its way, it was harder than the false reality of the house. It unwound in his realisation with the passing hours and would not be dislodged. There was a melancholy, even to Arthur's happiness, a restraint, with every word and action held to some intense scrutiny before being attempted. Everything would be fine. It was what Peter told himself with every jab of unease, of unhappiness. Everything would be fine. He couldn't believe it, no matter how often the words crossed his mind, repeated to himself all throughout the day. He only gave up the ghost as he lay in his bed in the dark. It wouldn't be okay. Things weren't supposed to be this way. It was this thought that followed him down into the dark.

When he woke, there was still that sense of unreality, a disorientation that he couldn't shake. It was still early - the world outside the window still dark. Memories of a nameless dream swirled through his head - black fish in the black water. The bright glow of something from far below...

Peter slid from beneath the covers. He dressed himself with a quiet briskness. It wasn't really deliberate, or at least not conscious. He padded down the steps, paused a moment outside of his father's door where it hung open just a fraction. Temptation was too great to resist and he peered into the thin sliver. Arthur was curled among the blankets looking small and forlorn on the large empty bed. He hadn't stayed with his boyfriend after Peter had vanished - hadn't taken up with anyone else since. For the first time the depth of his father's loneliness and isolation were truly sinking in.

"I'm sorry..." He murmured, feather soft, brushing his fingers across the smooth wood of the door frame.

Just that one moment and then Peter was going for the front door - nothing left to grab, no reason to hesitate any longer. He'd consigned both himself and his father to this hell... god willing, he would find a way to right the wrong - or die trying. Once on the street, he was only a little surprised that his feet knew the way. Even if he hadn't remembered he could feel the pull of the place, guiding his steps. It was both closer and farther than he remembered.

The second non-surprise still managed to jolt him somehow. The dawning light illuminated a form sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, knees drawn to the huddled figure's chest. "Ace." He murmured the name before he even got a good look, saw the other boy raise his head in response.

Their eyes met, a distress on Alfred's face that mirrored Peter's own. "Hey..." The other boy's voice came out low and hoarse. "I... I kinda hoped you'd be here..."

"I figured."

Things are all wrong, Peter... they're all messed up. I- I don't even..." Alfred drew a trembling breath. "I don't understand what's going on. My dad's dead. He's dead. And my mom-" Hands clenched into fists. "She's just... she's gotten so old, Peter."

"How long were you at the house, Alfred?" No nickname this time.

"I-" An owlish blink, puzzlement on his face as he scrunched up his expression into a scowl. "I dunno... six weeks? A little more, maybe."

Peter did the math in his head. No wonder. If the time thing was true for Alfred the way it was true for him... "It's been over forty years then, Ace."

Panic dashed through Alfred's eyes, real and all-encompassing. Peter tore his gaze away, unable to look at the emotion without feeling a sense of sick embarrassment. "Oh god..." After a long pause, Peter reached out a clumsy hand, rested it on Alfred's arm, waited until the small tremors began to ease before looking up again. Alfred had a brightness to his eyes like the sheen of unshed tears, but he raised his chin and swallowed. "So-" He worried at his lower lip for a moment. "What now?" His voice had a small, lost note to it and Peter felt something solidifying inside of him.

"Now we go find out who did this and make them give back what they took from us." Peter met Alfred's incredulous stare with a steadiness that gave nothing away.

"D-do you think we can?" Hope bubbled in Alfred's expression and Peter smiled in reply, a feral upturn of his lips.

"We can." They had to, Peter knew. There was no other option. This time there would not be a chance for escape. All or nothing, Peter Kirkland. Now is the time. "We must." He held out his hand, palm up. Expectant.

Alfred hesitated and Peter could see the unease sparking in his eyes. This would break them if they failed. Alfred knew it too. As wrong as things were now, they were still free. Still safe. Why take that risk?

Peter let out a breath and gave the other boy the out he so desperately wanted. "You don't have to come." Swallowed, at the way Alfred took a step back and away, ready to cut and run. "You don't have to but..." Both of them froze in place, looking at each other. "I wish you would come... I need you." Another step backward, a twist to Alfred's lips and a gleam on his cheeks that could have been tears, and Peter let his hand fall back to his side, giving a faint nod. "Good luck then, Alfred."

The words hung on the air as Alfred finally turned away and trotted up the street, faltering a short distance away. Pausing long enough to look back over his shoulder and murmur faint words. "Good luck, Peter..."

If there was more, it was lost to the fog.

-0-


	5. Chapter 5

XIV.

He imagined he could feel the difference this time, going through the cloying mists, the weight around him that spoke of magic. Peter staggered as he hit the air on the other side, the coolness of a dawning spring morning.

Peter tensed as he emerged, expecting... well... something. That one of the others - the underlings to this mysterious master of the place would be there to hinder him. There was no one to be found. Even so, Peter remained cautious as he made his way back toward the house, feeling the slight twitching in his muscles at even the tiniest of sounds. He almost jumped at the creaking of wood as he went up the steps onto the porch.

His hand reached out to touch the knob and he felt something hit the other side of the screen. Peter jerked his hand back so swiftly that he almost off-balanced. His fingers twitched, eyes going wide as he crept toward the door again, flinching at the next thump of something slamming against the frame. This time he caught a glimpse of brown and white. A soft meow and his panic subsided, his hands on the handle, jerking the screen door open. Immediately a small furry body entangled itself in his legs.

"Heracles?" He'd not seen the cat so excited over anything before. Heracles had always been the one sleeping aimlessly in a patch of sun. But now... the long drawn out mewls sounded almost like pain, the urgent rubbing of his head against Peter's leg was almost desperation. A month ago he would have thought it was stupid to attribute human emotions to an animal, but these were special cats. "What's the matter?" He reached out a hand and tried to catch hold of the feline, only to have Heracles pull away and scramble toward the pantry stairs. The cat paused at the top step, looking back over his shoulder at Peter, expectant.

Something was wrong... something bad. Oh god...

"Yao? Heracles, did something happen to Yao?" Yao who had helped him and Alfred escape, who had always had time to listen to him and had been kind to him...

He needed no further prodding, his feet carrying him down the stairs into the dark under levels of the house. Somehow, despite all the other explorations, he'd never come down here before - perhaps something as simple as a child's fear of the dark at play. He hesitated only a second, looking into the black descent before stepping down, down into the dimly lit stairwell.

It was a longer trip than he'd expected, though there was more light than he'd thought there would be as well. Most of the room was still obscured in shadow and Peter could only make out vague forms - boxes and crates, bags... a few unidentifiable blobs of darker shadow at the edges... Peter glanced around, swallowing as he came down off the steps and yelping as he felt his foot bump against something. His heart took several seconds to slow from the erratic pattering it was doing, long enough that he became aware of another sound, a muffled pounding.

Well, more like scraping really. Peter bit his lip, heard Heracles' voice rise in a plaintive meow. It was that sound that scared him more as the caught a glimpse of what Heracles was pawing at. Claws scraped at the wood of a long, narrow box, entirely too much like an old-fashioned coffin.

Was Yao in there? Was Yao even alive? For the first time, Peter wondered. He'd helped them escape when it had been clear that doing so was against the rules of this place... would they have let him live?

There was a lock on the box and Peter had some small room for hope - because why would you lock up a dead body? There was no key. He tried to wrest the lock free with his bare hands and found it stronger than that. Strong, yes, but not strong enough to withstand his sheer determination. Peter snatched up a heavy object from nearby, not even able to identify what it was, except that it was smooth metal beneath his fingers. He brought it up over his head and slammed it down against the lock with all the force he could muster. Once. Twice. The metal ground and gave way, the lock skittering across the floor as Peter threw his makeshift club aside and pushed open the wooden lid.

It was both better and worse than he'd feared. It was Yao, bound ruthlessly and locked in this box. It was...

And he was alive...

Peter let out a soft hysterical little laugh as he saw Yao's sides moving faintly, the slight shift of the man's head. As Yao turned to look at him, he could see the livid bruises on those pale cheeks. As he carefully untied the gag, the rawness of Yao's lips and the blood staining the fabric were all he needed to see to know that locking Yao away in the trunk had been the least of what they'd done to him.

He reached out and helped Yao sit up, clumsily untying the ropes to free his hands. Yao coughed, doubled over himself a little bit with an odd, bubbly wheeze in his throat that sent cold fear snaking through Peter's insides.

"Who did this? Was it that creature I saw?" A name found its way to his lips from the depths of his memory. "Was it that Gaius guy?" Peter knew he was right when Yao gave a soft hiss, a warning sound, pausing in his struggles to get free of the box.

"You shouldn't say that name, Peter." Yao stumbled even as he found his feet. "He won't like it."

"He stole away thirty years I was supposed to have with my dad! I don't care if he likes it or not!" Peter scowled. "I need to find him Yao. Are you going to help me or not?"

A small furry form brushed against his leg and he almost jumped, leaving enough room for Heracles to move past him and leap up into Yao's arms. Yao was silent for a few more seconds before giving a soft sigh. "Gaius had them throw me in here for sending Kiku to help you." At the reminder, Peter immediately looked back into the wooden box. If he expected to see Kiku's fuzzy face peering back at him, he was to be sorely disappointed. A hand brushed his arm and he turned troubled eyes to Yao.

"Where-" He didn't finish the question. He didn't have to.

"Kiku is dead." And there was something else beneath the grief in his voice that Peter didn't understand. He'd known the words were coming, but the knowledge didn't help. "Gaius had him killed for helping you escape." A pause, the slight furrow of Yao's eyebrows and then "Why have you come back, Peter? He won't let you escape again now that you've returned."

"I don't want to escape." Peter could feel Yao's shock without having to see it. "I'm here to defeat him." It hadn't really sunk in before, the enormity of the task, or even that he'd intended it at all. In hindsight it made sense. "And when I do that, she'll be free, right?"

Eliza. Oh, Eliza...

"I don't know, Peter." There was something in Yao's voice, a muted awe. "It could be. It could set them all free."

"All..." Of course. The fish... other children like Eliza, lured in by the House's shining promises and doomed to stay forever, circling in the dark. "How long has he been doing this?" It occurred to him that Yao might know more than he did, things that could be exploited, like Gaius' weaknesses. "How can I defeat him?" Then, one more question, like hindsight but infinitely more important. "He made you, didn't he? So why did you help me?"

Yao was silent, still stroking Heracles' fur, feather soft, then he let out a breath, a sound like the wind blowing through leaves. "I'm not one of Gaius' creations, Peter. Not like the others. I came here when I was young. Like you did." So why was he here and not swimming in the lake? "I was the first child to be brought here, before Gaius had servants to do the work for him. I was very upset when he found me, you see. I'd run away from home.."

"Why?" He didn't seem like the type to run away.

"Because-" and Yao smiled wistfully, "My pet cat had died and my father refused to let me have another. And on the first day I arrived here, Gaius-"

"He gave you three cats, didn't he?" He didn't need Yao's silent nod to answer him.

"You've figured out how this place works." It wasn't a question. "You're right. He gave me Heracles, Kiku and Gupta. And he told me too, that the cats weren't the only thing he could give me. That he would make it so I always had what I wanted from now on."

"What did you want?" Peter's voice was soft.

Yao smiled, pain in his too young, too old eyes. "New cats. My own childhood." Pause again, swallowing. "Never to die. I was so afraid of that, I remember... of winding up like my cat."

"C-can he even do that?" But here in front of him was the proof. "How long has it been?"

"Hush." It was all the warning Yao gave before Peter could hear it too. Footsteps from above, the door at the top of the stairs thrown open again, dramatically. Peter wasn't sure who he'd expected to see but it was Gilbert there, all gleaming red eyes and sharp shining smile.

Gilbert looked from one to the other and then turned his attention to Peter. "Hey Kid! I was looking all over for you. I was just talking to Gaius. He really likes you, you know. Better than anyone else he's ever had here. Thinks you're something special. So he sent me to talk to you and make sure there's no hard feelings."

Peter gritted his teeth, "That won't work."

"What?" Gilbert actually seemed surprised. "But why not? Don't you like it here? Didn't you enjoy it?'

"I did." And it was the truth. "But I didn't like what it cost me. Come on Yao, we need to go find this Gaius guy. He has to be here somewhere."

"Oh, he is." Gilbert didn't stop them as they pushed past him toward the stairs. "But who says you'll find him?"

"We'll find him." Peter gritted his teeth. I swear we will."

.

.

XV.

It seemed Gilbert wasn't the only one aware of their presence. Lovino was waiting for them in the kitchen, shuffling around plates of desserts on the table. "What's the rush? Sit down and have something to eat!" The Italian shoved a plate toward them, but Peter didn't even look. He knew a distraction when he saw one.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry."

Lovino scoffed "Come on, are you stupid enough that you'd turn down free cake? What kind of dumb bastard turns down free cake?"

"It's not real!" Peter shot back, short and impatient. "It's just dirt and magic to make it look pretty!"

"It is not!" The Italian snarled, "I'll prove it!" Lovino grabbed for one of the desserts - a cake - ignoring the frosting on his fingers as he snatched it up.

"Don't do it, fool!" Gilbert's warning came too late, as Lovino shoved the cake into his mouth in a single greedy gulp. Immediately Gilbert backed away several steps, though there seemed to be no immediate effect.

"See, I told you it was-" Peter recoiled as Lovino gagged and choked, a cloud of dust bursting from his lips. The Italian doubled over a bit, gasping and breathing in hoarse, wheezing rasps. "What's happening to me?" Lovino howled a little, clawing at his mouth, at his stomach, the dust coming up in surging coughs. His eyes were wide in terror and desperation so complete that Peter could almost pity him.

"You've just reminded your body what it's made of," Gilbert took another step back, almost fastidious for a second. "Ashes and dirt. You broke the magic, idiot. There was a reason you weren't supposed to eat that crap."

'Help' - Lovino mouthed the word because the only sound that came out was a hoarse wheeze. His fingers clawed at the wall, at the counter, knees buckled finally and he hit the floor, gasping. Body drawn tight, receding, then there was a sound like a cork popping free of a bottle and where Lovino had been, there was nothing.

One down, Peter thought grimly, though until now he hadn't considered that he might have to fight his way to Gaius... Lips pressed together in determination that lasted as long as it took him to turn towards the hallway between kitchen and stairs. Feliciano stood there, eyes open and wide, staring at the spot where his brother had been.

God. Peter hadn't even thought about Feliciano...

"Lovino..." The name was drawn out, soft and grieving, though he didn't move in that direction. "What did you do?"

He hadn't felt guilt before this... "I had to. I need to find Gaius, Feli. I need to get back what he took from me - from all the kids here..." Words tumbled more quickly once they started, though he wasn't sure how much Feliciano really got from the jumble - magic and time and stolen lives.

"But what about us?" He cut it straight down to the core. Peter supposed in the scheme of things, it was only natural for people to wonder about themselves first. "If the magic goes away, what happens?"

Magic powered them... created them. No magic meant...

"I don't know, Feli. I really don't." He wanted to relax, to reassure even, but he had to keep at least a little wary, just in case.

Feliciano sank into the chair beside the table, so close to where his brother had been only minutes ago. There was a moment of silence that Peter wasn't sure he wanted to tackle. He waited instead, knowing that sooner or later, the man would have to speak.

"Do you think there's more than this, Peter?" There was something mournful in Feliciano's eyes that had nothing to do with Lovino's loss - it was different kind of shadow. "To being in the world, I mean. Is this all there is?" Fingers traced over the plate on the table, the cookies still sitting there. Just a day or two ago, Feliciano had wanted these more than anything. Peter wasn't sure what he wanted now. He didn't really want to fight Feli, but he'd resolved himself to doing so if he had to.

"I don't think anyone knows for sure, Feli," he replied, tone cautious, "-that's why we have to enjoy what we have while we have it." An echo of Yao's words to him - about enjoying the time he had instead of lingering on the time already past and gone.

"Enjoy what we have." Feliciano's head lowered, enough that Peter couldn't see his expression, then raised again to show that bright, cheerful smile. "Grazie, Peter. I think I will enjoy it." Fingers on that tempting morsel and Peter knew in the second before it happened, knew what Feliciano was intending. Perhaps he could have stopped it if he'd been a little faster...

He wasn't sure he wanted to - not like he'd stopped Feliciano that once...

Because Feliciano was right. If Peter won, if all of this magic went away, then what would become of him?

Enjoy your cookie, Feli. You deserve this much, at least...

Peter grabbed hold of Yao's arm, unwilling to look, knowing what he'd see if he did. "You should go outside," He mumbled, gesturing to the door with a hand that felt more clumsy than it was. He wasn't entirely sure why the conviction and need to get Yao away from the house was so strong - except that Yao was still here and as long as that was the case, there was always the chance he was in danger. He might be outside too, but to confront Gaius with Yao in tow... he just couldn't do it...

"Peter..."

"Go on," He mumbled again, and felt more than saw the uncertain look Yao shot him. But for once there was no overriding wisdom of age - or else Yao simply understood the reasons that Peter was telling him to leave. He gave a bob of his head in reply, unable to bow well with Heracles still in his arms, and the gesture was somehow just as courtly. Turned. Disappeared out through the kitchen door.

Peter threw a sharp, suspicious gaze at Gilbert, but the man only shrugged. The boy didn't look as he passed the table, though he couldn't miss the thin coating of dust stirring in the faint breeze from the open back door, trickling away and gone... No goodbyes. Maybe that was best, though.

When Peter slipped out into the hallway, the albino was ghosting his steps. Peter mostly managed to ignore him as he reached the staircase. Yao was already outside, so at least one person Peter cared about was safe... He bit at his lip and wondered about those words - what they'd meant. Some part of him hoped they were true - it was hard to imagine a person as bright and cheerful as Feliciano simply... not existing. He choked back the swelling unhappiness with the determination. Fight now. Mourn later... if there is a later.

.

.

XVI.

Gilbert was still lingering behind him as he ascended the stairs, though the man made no attempt to hinder Peter or do anything other than stand back and watch as Peter reached for the first of the doors in the topmost hall.

The sound of a door creaking further down the hallway made him freeze in place.

He didn't have to turn to know who was there - the way the hallway flushed cold was all the hint he needed. He turned anyway. He couldn't help himself.

"Peter Kirkland," A low hiss, dangerous, "I will unmake you." Natalya's eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, her hands reaching out for him. He knew the touch of those fingers and what they could do. "You won't be able to bother Master again if you're a frog or a slug..." He stumbled back, but not far enough, her hands brushing him - so cold to the touch that they burned. That familiar tingle of magic on his skin, her fingers sliding against the curve of his cheek. "What will it be, I wonder... you dream of such things... what can I make of you...?"

His own hands came up, grabbed hold of hers. Peter didn't pull away exactly, instead tangling his fingers with her own. The power was still fluttering through him and he could feel it trying to change him, to remake him. He couldn't let that happen - there was no part of him that wanted to be something else anymore. Whether it was his own will or some inherent flaw of Natalya's power, he could feel the magic move in him like a closed circuit, loop. It flowed back into her hands and he felt her jolt this time.

He held on - the only advantage he had. "I won't be something else, Natalya. But what about you? What would you be?"

There was something new in her eyes, writhing and roiling, and she tried to pull her hands away from his. Peter's grip was unyielding though, and the magic was still flowing inexorably between them. "Let go of me!"

"Tell me what you dream of." Peter pressed again and felt the magic trying to work on him, failing, working on her instead. He could feel her skin shifting, a weird, disturbing sensation, at first like clay and then more fluid. Peter realised with a start that she was melting, and he wanted to recoil, but couldn't. His fingers wouldn't untangle. The skin was sagging down her cheeks, strands of her long silver-blonde hair melting into the gooey mass of her body. "W-what kind of dream is this?" He'd only wanted to stop her from changing him, not to do this to her...

"I dream of nothing." Natalya's voice came out as a bubbling hiss. "Nothing."

Nothing. And that was what she was becoming. Peter had no way of taking it back even if wanted to, as the last of the magic shuddered through him, Natalya's form melting into a formless blob, then dissolving further into nothingness.

"You've got a talent for destroying things, don't you, kid?" Gilbert commented, far too casually for someone who had just witnessed the 'death' of one of his former comrades. "I wasn't a big fan of her, but the boss is going to be pretty angry, I think."

"Then let him be angry at me. Where is he!"

Gilbert shrugged again, giving him a lopsided grin, and Peter ignored the attempts to goad him. He had to be close, there weren't many places left. He eyed the remaining doors before looking up again, up at the trapdoor leading to the attic crawlspace. Tugged it and felt the rain of dust and silt as it opened. He expected Gilbert to stop him, but the man made no motion to do so, any more than he had to help the others Peter had confronted. He didn't even follow as Peter went up those steps, a fact that brought a sense of foreboding to the boy.

Something moved as he stepped into the attic, a hunched form scuttling away from the band of light. For a moment Peter was convinced it was Gaius - who else could it be? - but even in the dim light, it was recognisable.

Sadiq. It - or he... it did look like a he... - seemed more human now than before - more like a man in a mask than a beast. The image wavered in his eyes like one of those magic eye puzzles - creature, man, creature... Whichever was truly the case, Sadiq looked to be in pain, shuddering limbs and rasping breaths. Coming back across the border had not fixed the magic, or else Gaius had deliberately chosen to leave Sadiq to his suffering as the price of failure. Pity stirred inside him, watching the short, agonized movements and he reached out a hand without thinking.

Instead of biting, which was what he should have expected in hindsight, Sadiq flinched away from the touch like a frightened animal. It set the emotion stronger in Peter. "It's okay..." His voice drifted soft through the dark and at last Sadiq moved toward him, head bowed. More animal than human now, or at least more like one in instinct. Peter's hand brushed the top of Sadiq's head, moved in that familiar petting motion, like he was stroking Gupta or Kiku. Sadiq leaned into the touch - what was possibly the first kindness he had ever known - closed his eyes and made a sound too reminiscent of the cats.

A moment later he pulled back, further back, away from Peter's touch. The boy wasn't sure what to make of it, or the way Sadiq was trembling. The tremors did not ease the further he got, curled upon himself in a corner with a low noise halfway between a laugh and a whimper somehow and twitched in helpless convulsions. Shaken apart, literally, somewhere between one moment and the next. A pile of bones rapidly browning and shriveling with age, fragments of cloth scattered between.

The last of Gaius' creations that he knew about, save Gilbert who was still somewhere below...

"What have you done, Peter Kirkland?" Voice drifting on the air, warm and almost kindly in some strange way. "It's not right to destroy someone else's things."

It had to be... "Gaius!" Peter whirled around, saw nothing on the other side of him, but the voice had been there and real... "Show yourself!"

His demand only garnered a laugh that reverberated all around him. There was a hint of motion from behind him and he turned immediately, too fast to catch himself when his foot slipped in the dust-smothered floor. He went down, butt first, then flat on his back. The motion he'd spotted continued - a glowing orb like the light he'd seen back at the lake... but his gaze wasn't on it - his gaze was higher.

Peter had been wrong - so wrong in so fundamental a way. Gaius wasn't the master of the house - or not just that, at least... - he was the house. There was a face in the wood and molding of the ceiling, something that seemed not quite real. More of the orbs drifted lazily about up near the roof.

Somehow it changed everything. He'd come expecting to fight a man - a powerful magician, yes, but a man nonetheless - and this new development threw him for a loop. How did one fight a house?

"I should destroy you for what you've done." There was something conversational about the tone though, odd and potentially intriguing if Peter hadn't been more worried about how he was going to get his years back when he wasn't even sure how to hurt Gaius...

A notion fluttered its way across his brain and died before it could complete itself. Too many reasons not to...

Fire. Fire could destroy a house.

Or a life.

"I should. But you... I admit, I like you. You remind me a bit of myself, Peter Kirkland." The words made him shudder a little inside, but it didn't manage to derail his thoughts.

But even if he could somehow set the house ablaze - and just thinking of trying... it made his insides twist - Gaius still had magic to counteract it. Lots of magic, if all he'd seen was any indication...

"So perhaps I won't get rid of you then, hm? Perhaps I should keep you. Your spirit shines so brightly... We could make a good team you and I."

Could he run out?

No resource is infinite.

Peter's own words surprised him. "If I agreed-" He could feel the walls leaning inward in anticipation, "-then what?"

"Then I'd take you under my wing." A low chuckle. "Teach you the things that I know. You'd belong to me, Peter, my apprentice." Like Yao, Peter thought and felt a spark of anger.

"You'd want my soul though, wouldn't you?" What a question, when he knew the answer. Gaius would hardly be satisfied without it.

"Of course. But think of all you'd gain without it. Souls are overrated, child. Believe me. When you can have anything you want, who needs it."

That was the line of reasoning he'd been hoping for! Peter coughed, cleared his throat. "So if I join you, you'd give me anything I want?"

"Yes."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?"

Thoughtful stare, so much more freakish when it was coming at him from the ceiling directly above him. "Ask me for anything and I'll give it to you. As a sign of good faith."

"I lost my boat-" He began, and seconds later it was in his hand, he didn't even have to finish his sentence.

"What else...?"

"I-" It was hard to think of things he wanted when he was under pressure to do so... He looked at the boat in his hands and an idea struck. "What about another boat? A bigger one?"

"Done." The boat appeared, but this one was easily five times the size of the last, coming up to Peter's middle.

"And I don't want wooden sailors.." he dared a little more because he had to.

Gaius seemed contemplative. "Then what is it you want? Silver? Gold?"

"Flesh and blood," Peter shot back, "Real, living sailors"

"A challenge!" Gaius sounded more pleased than anything, not a great sign. A flash and suddenly there were sailors on the ship - each standing as tall as the length of Peter's hand. They peered over the bow of the boat at him, with surprise on their tiny faces. "What else would you like?" Gaius sounded positively giddy - perhaps he enjoyed using his magic..

Peter didn't have to think, luckily, words rattling off his tongue without him having to ponder on them. Ludicrous, crazy things. He skipped from toys to food, ignoring the huge cake that appeared a short distance in front of him. The more that appeared, the less appealing it became - strange dishes like shark and frog mingling with the sweet candies and the delicate cakes to create a smell that was rather unstomachable.

The soft creak of wood between one word and the next caught his attention. It was what he'd hoped for. He'd been right, Gaius' energy was plentiful but it wasn't limitless. He could wear Gaius down... he would have to.

"Are you satisfied?" He imagined he could hear some strain in Gaius' voice, he hoped it was more than imagination.

"Just a little more..." Peter hedged, "Just... stuff for my room, and a bike to ride, and one of those weird pogo sticks..." He edged toward the hatchway, backed down the ladder that led up to Gaius' lair.

Not enough room, was the excuse, as he slipped down the stairs, still calling out, knowing that Gaius would hear him no matter where he was. "And I'd like candied ants and pickled frog legs and every kind of tea..." Came down on the landing to the first floor and into the kitchen proper. There were already things piled up on the table, in anticipation, he supposed. some of them were already spilling over, overflowing.

He ignored them, turning the stove on with a deft twist. The small ship was still clutched against his chest and he reached out with one hand, grabbing for the cooking oil. It hurt a little, inside, to fumble the cap off and tilt the bottle until the oil surged and splattered over his fingers and the boat, past them and onto the floor. Just as well, maybe it would help. The fire on the burners was already going, the boat held gingerly in his hands - it had to be quick, before Gaius could figure out what he was doing - if he hadn't already...

"Enough!" Gaius' voice made his hands shake, the rest of the oil splattering across the floor as the bottle fell from his fingers. "I think my point is clear enough, Peter Kirkland. I have given you all you asked, and now your soul will belong to me."

No. Not yet. Distract him. "That was the plan, yes..." Peter held the boat out over the burner, hands trembling a bit - fear of Gaius or the fire. The oil-splattered wood took to flame immediately, fire licking along the delicately crafted sides. Peter held it for only a moment longer than necessary, feeling the heat against his skin, and then he flung it, - the sailors flying out, each of them a tiny mass of fire, scattering across the gifts, the floor, the heaping mound of disgusting food on the table...

"But I have a different plan." He wasn't sure himself if he'd said it out loud or not. Peter ran as soon as his makeshift torch hit the floor, the table already aflame, the curtains starting to catch. It would be a good blaze with the oil to feed it, as long as Gaius had no other tricks up his wooden sleeves. His feet thudded first on the wooden floor, on the porch, then he was down in a leap and on the grass. Running, turning. Drawing to a halt with fascination in his eyes.

He wasn't afraid of the fire - or not enough that it kept him from watching, though a distance away. there was something fascinating about it - and the howl on the air was all he needed to know that Gaius was feeling it, that his plan was working...

"Curse you, thief!" Gaius roared, the noise rising with the rattling of wind. "I shall put out this fire and then I shall destroy you!" Clouds gathered overhead, powerful and fast, rising darkly above. Storm clouds - those would bring rain, and quickly.

But that wasn't all they would bring. A flash of lightning lit the dimness, turned the outline of the burning house into a fearsome thing. Then the first drops of rain, what Gaius had been hoping for. They were snatched away in the harshness of the wind. Gusts battering against the trembling walls.

The storm... the storm was possibly a worse idea than mere rain would have been, no matter the deluge. The tearing wind clawed at the weakened wood, ripping tiles from the ceiling, snatching at the groaning fire-damaged girders. Pulling them up and apart - and the scream that reverberated through it all would haunt him forever. Through the fog and the smoke, he could barely make out the house as began to collapse into itself in a heap of wood and rubble.

He hadn't beaten Gaius. Gaius had beaten himself.

-0-

A/N - Well, our first con of the year has passed and things seem to be settling back into a normal schedule. I'm working on a few other updates to have out soon, but in the meantime I'd just like to alert readers that I'm participating in the Help Japan Fandom Auction. Information is on my profile, but I am offering both art and stories and all proceeds will go to help Japan. If anyone is interested in helping a good cause, please drop by my profile and take a look.


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